


Putting the B Back In Subtle

by algernon_mouse, pinn



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-20
Updated: 2010-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-06 12:44:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/algernon_mouse/pseuds/algernon_mouse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinn/pseuds/pinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bob Bryar gets a real job, grows up a little, puts the drums aside, becomes a touring sound engineer, drinks too much, repeatedly goes against his better judgment, hooks up with Jepha, gets sucked in by the earnestness of My Chem's message, is dumped by Jepha, joins MCR, develops an inconvenient crush on Brian Schechter, nearly dies, and says something he's been meaning to say for awhile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Putting the B Back In Subtle

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written with [algernon_mouse](http://algernon-mouse.livejournal.com) for Bandom Big Bang 2008. Thanks to kickthebeat, belladonnalin and shoshannagold for looking this over at some point or another. We're also thankful to everyone who encouraged this and/or listened to us whine about it. Any and all 'Better Off Dead' jokes are completely intentional.

"So, what now?"

Bob shakes his head as he finishes packing his suitcase. Christ, if he hears that question one more time, he's going to punch something.

"I don't know," Bob says as he looks over at his dad, leaning against the door frame.

"Considering how much money we spent on that degree, I hope you're planning on putting it to good use."

"Thanks, Dad." Bob zips up the suitcase and looks around the room, making sure that he's got all his stuff.

His father straightens up and walks over to the bed. "I'm proud of you. You know that, right?" He looks uncomfortable for a moment. "I just don't really know what a degree in sound is going to do for you."

"I know, I know." Bob rubs his hands over his face and sighs. "Look, I've got an interview at House of Blues two days from now. I'm sure if that doesn't work out, I can find something. I know enough people in Chicago."

"All right." His dad holds his hands up in mock surrender. "You ready?"

Bob nods and his dad grabs the suitcase and carries it out of the apartment. As Bob follows him, he takes one last look around, making sure that he's got everything. He's a little surprised to find he's going to miss his place, even though he knows he's not going to miss Florida. By the time Bob makes it out to the car, his dad has already loaded the suitcase in the van and is in the driver's seat. Bob climbs into the passenger seat.

"Ready?" Bob's dad asks as he turns the car on.

Bob nods his head slightly and slaps his thighs with the palms of both hands. "Yeah."

 

* * *

 

The interview at House of Blues goes so well that, at the end of it, they tell him he can start on Saturday night.

For a second, Bob's surprised at how easy it is but he's not about to go looking a gift horse in the mouth. On Saturday, Bob shows up to the club early. He stashes his jacket in the sound booth before he heads over to the bar for a drink. The place is still mostly empty and the house lights are up. They make everything look tired and shabby.

The band shows up a bit later and Bob is watching them from the booth when one of the waitresses pops her head in. "Hey," she says, tossing a long sweep of blond hair out of her face. "I'm Cindy. If you need anything later just let me know." She cracks her gum and Bob nods. "I mean, I'll probably be too fucking busy to get it for you, but it's the thought that counts, right?"

Bob smiles then and Cindy smiles back.

It turns out that she's right though. The place does pick up and by 11:30, just when Bob would kill for a drink, he can't flag her down. Every so often he can see her zigzagging her way through the crowd, the blue strobe lights bouncing off the top of her head. It's slightly maddening. Irrationally, Bob wonders how long it takes for someone to die of dehydration.

During the break in between sets, Bob's torn between either making a break for the bathroom or shoving his way to the bar. Just when he's settled on 'bathroom', Cindy pops her head in the booth. "You want something?"

"Rum and coke," Bob shouts as he squeezes past her. He figures he has five minutes, tops.

When Bob gets back to the booth, his drink is sweating off to the left of his soundboard next to an equally sweaty bottle of water. Bob can't help but grin as he uncaps the bottle of water and drains half of it in one go.

The rest of the night goes quickly. The band's okay, for the most part. They're a little more rockabilly than Bob prefers but it's sound. He's doing actual sound and Bob figures that has to count for something.

He settles into an easy routine after that. He sleeps late and rolls into the club in the early evening with a cigarette pinched between his lips. He doesn't have to ask Cindy for his drink anymore. It just magically appears, and Bob - if Cindy's around to see it - tips the glass in the air at her to say thanks. After the club closes most nights, Bob sticks around. They shift tables together and sit around drinking, smoking and eating thick wedges of garlic bread and cheese from the kitchen.

After four months, Bob's saved enough money for a shitty apartment near an El stop. The wind comes in through the windows and he can hear every step his neighbors take but it's not his parents' basement and that's good enough for Bob. He didn't realize how much he missed his freedom until he gets it back again.

One night after the sound check, but before the club opens, he tells Cindy about the neighbors. She laughs as Bob describes the horror of seeing the new guy's hairy ass.

"Seriously, Cindy," Bob says as he takes a drag on his cigarette. "Fucking disgusting."

"Whatever." Cindy pulls the cigarette from Bob's mouth and takes a puff. She offers it back to him.

Bob blinks and stares at her. "Uh, keep it."

"Thanks." Cindy shrugs. "So, what are you doing later?"

"Probably grab a beer with Ed and then head home." It's getting close to show time and Bob's itching to go over the boards one more time. His instructors always told him that he over-prepared and that it could be a problem, mess with his spontaneity or something but Bob would rather be anal-retentive than have the board explode in the middle of a set.

"Maybe we could hang out?" Cindy asks, hopefully.

Bob always misses this shit, right until it hits him in the fucking face. "Uh," Bob stutters.

The worst part is Bob has yet to figure out how to gently extract himself from these situations. After a few seconds of opening and closing his mouth, Cindy takes pity on him. "Or not. It's cool."

"Really?"

"Well, I might go cry in the supply closet about missing the Bob Bryar Experience, but I think I can put together the pieces of my shattered heart and move on."

Bob laughs and Cindy smiles as she says, "I'll see you during the break."

She leaves the booth and Bob breathes a sigh of relief. He likes Cindy, he really does. She's pretty and smart. She's not the type of girl working at the club just to fuck the bands either. She's just trying to make her way through and Bob can appreciate that. He's just not interested in her.

Bob's radio crackles and Ed comes on, sounding like they're using two tins cans and string. "Bryar, you going to put on a show sometime tonight or flirt with Cindy all night?"

"Fuck you, Ed," Bob replies.

"Nah, I'll leave that up to Cindy."

The backstage tech hops on the system and says, "Hey assholes, let's go."

Ed drops the lights, Bob puts on his headphones and it starts all over again.

Two nights later, on a non-concert night, Bob's playing with the boards a little, checking wires, when he feels someone staring at him. He pushes himself off the ground and looks around. Behind the booth, a tall guy with black hair curling over his collar and a drink in his hand is smiling at Bob.

"Can I help you?" Bob asks, confused.

The guy looks Bob up and down appraisingly. "I think so. Meet me out back in five minutes."

For the first two minutes, Bob's a little pissed at the nerve of this random guy, thinking he's just going to stroll outside without asking questions. He tells himself it's not safe and he's better off staying at the boards, but then his dick reminds him it's been months since Bob's been intimate with anything other than his hand. Bob nods and heads toward the back exit. The guy is leaning against the alley wall, smirking again. Or maybe still.

Fuck that. Bob can play that game too.

Bob grabs the guy, spins him around and presses him against the wall. He's taller than Bob, but not by much, and broad too. He's big enough to throw Bob off but he only makes a soft huffing sound as Bob leans in against him. Bob drops his head forward. His breath feels humid against his own nose when he buries his face in the back of the guy's neck.

"How do you like it?" Bob grunts. He's already got one hand on his buckle, working the fastening open.

Bob's dick is hard and there's a hot flutter low in his belly when the guy pushes his ass back against Bob and mutters, "Just fuckin' do it."

"Okay, okay. Fuckin' relax, man." Bob's fingers shake slightly as he works the guy's jeans down just enough to bare his ass. He spits into his hand before he shoves in, but it still feels a little too dry to be comfortable. The guy flinches forward and Bob gasps, "Shit shit shit. Are you okay?"

The guy grunts and pushes back, hard. The slide of his ass feels hot and tight and the skin above Bob's tailbone ripples with goose pimples. Bob bites down on his lip until he can taste blood.

"Jerk me off," he says. Bob moans.

It's messy. The rhythm is off and Bob's terrified someone's going to come out back for a fresh keg at any second but he still comes, quick and dirty.

The other guy comes a few seconds later and Bob can't imagine how it's good for him; he'll probably be sore and raw tomorrow. Bob feels a little guilty, but it's not like he didn't ask for it.

Bob steps back and catches his breath while he tucks himself back in. The guy pulls up his pants and turns around to look at Bob. He gives Bob another once-over and smirks. "Nice."

The guy saunters off and Bob leans against the wall and tries to ignore how scuzzy he feels.

He stops by the bathroom and washes his face before heading back to the floor. Cindy sees him as he's walking back to the booth. "Have fun in the alley, Bob?"

Bob looks at his hands and blushes.

Cindy leans over and smirks. "You should have told me. I wouldn't have felt so silly."

"Sorry." Bob shrugs. He's not really used to talking about his preferences, especially with people he's turned down. He doesn't see Cindy for the rest of the night. The night slows down exponentially, and he can't stop watching the clock, counting down until he can leave. As soon as the manager gives the okay, Bob signs out and heads for the station.

It's early but the bars haven't closed yet, so Bob's able to find an empty car. He watches the lights stay still as the train flies by. Right after he dropped out of high school, when his parents were riding his ass all the time about going back, Bob would hop on the train and ride it all afternoon. Sometimes he'd get off and meet up with some friends or scope out a music store, but usually he just rode and learned the city.

It had been freeing, knowing that he could go anywhere in the city for next to nothing. He didn't have that luxury in Florida.

The muffled voice announces Bob's stop and he sighs as he pulls himself up. Part of him, the part that's still sixteen and pissed-off at the world, wants to ride to the end of the line but another part of him, the part that's twenty and has to pay rent next week, pushes him forward and off the train.

The next night Bob expects a little awkwardness but Cindy brings him his usual drink without bringing it up. Bob takes his cue from her and starts to relax around her again. They're friends, or as close to friends as two people working at the same place and having nothing else in common can be.

He still fucking hates it when she steals his cigarette out of his mouth, though.

A couple of weeks later, there's a benefit at the club with lots of bands and VIPs and Bob and Ed don't stop moving the whole night. As soon as the club closes, Bob collapses into a chair and doesn't move until Cindy nudges him. He looks up at her blearily and Cindy just shakes her head. "Come on, Bryar, lend a hand."

Bob groans and Cindy pouts at him until he stands up and starts stacking the chairs up on the table tops. When they're finished, Cindy pushes a stray bit of hair off her face with the back of her hand and says, "You want to come back to my place for pizza or something?"

Bob freezes and Cindy rolls her eyes. "Asshole. I actually meant pizza. I'm starving."

"Um, yeah. Sure. Okay."

Cindy's place isn't far from the club. Bob tags along beside her with his fists jammed into the pockets of his jackets and his hoodie pulled up over the back of his head. It's a mild night, but there's still a damp chill in the air. Cindy is talking and Bob's only half-listening, going over the show and what he could have done differently.

"This is me." Cindy points to the red door toward the middle of the block. They walk up the steps and Bob looks down the street while Cindy fits her key into the lock and leans into the door to push it open. The hinges groan and Cindy mutters that her landlord is a dipshit incapable of fixing anything.

Inside, Cindy drops her jacket over the back of a kitchen chair as she crosses the room. "Beer?" she asks, her head in the fridge.

"Yeah," Bob says, looking around. Cindy hands him a bottle when she walks back into the living room and drops down onto the couch.

"So are you bi or, like, strictly an ass man?"

Bob chokes on his beer and a dribble slips over his chin. He wipes at it with the tips of his fingers and focuses on breathing. "Um?"

Cindy grins at him. "I've always wanted to be a fag hag. Or wait! I could be your beard!"

Bob shakes his head, a grin spreading slowly across his face. He scratches at the stubble on his cheek. "I already have a beard."

"Mmmm." Cindy smiles at him agreeably as she takes another long swallow of her beer. "So you have an actual degree in sound, huh?"

Bob nods his head and watches as Cindy leans forward and picks up a take-out menu from the coffee table. "Yeah."

"Deep dish pepperoni okay?" she asks, dialing the phone.

Bob nods again and picks at the label of his beer.

"You know, you're pretty lucky," she says after she's hung up the phone.

Bob frowns, trying to keep up with the rapid topic changes, and Cindy continues. "I have a perfectly useless degree in fashion design. It's cool that you're doing what you want to do." She pushes her feet into Bob's lap and Bob looks down at them, shocked.

"Rub," Cindy mutters, closing her eyes and getting comfortable against the back of the couch.

"Ah?" Bob presses against her instep, smiling a little.

"Oh, God," Cindy moans. "Bryar, you have magical hands." She rocks her foot into the muscle of Bob's thigh as if to prove her point. Bob chuckles and curls his hand over her toes and squeezes.

"Now that's what I'm talking about." Cindy smiles and cracks her eyes open at him. The attention makes Bob blush.

"It wouldn't have worked anyway," Cindy says after a few quiet minutes. Bob glances at her out of the corner of his eye.

"It might have," Bob says slowly. "You're pretty."

Cindy snorts. "No, it really wouldn't have. I'm looking for someone who's going to stick around, but I always fall for the guy who leaves."

"What?" Bob trades one foot for the other and digs his thumb sharply into her arch. "I'm not going anywhere."

Cindy looks at him for a long moment and Bob feels the nervous urge to shift under her gaze creeping up the back of his neck.

"Sure you are. You will. I can tell."

Bob doesn't know how to respond to that so he doesn't say anything. He has a ridiculous urge to argue with her, but her buzzer rings before he can actually think of an argument.

Cindy swings her feet off Bob's lap, and Bob goes into the kitchen to wash his hands. When he comes back out with another two beers, Cindy has the pizza box flipped open and is fighting with the first slice.

Bob shakes his head. "You've got to wait a minute for it to cool," he says. "You're gonna wreck it."

"I'm not going to wreck it," Cindy says stubbornly.

Bob watches as the cheese slides off her slice of pizza. He cocks his eyebrows at her. "See? I fucking told you that you were gonna wreck it."

Cindy picks up a piece of pepperoni and makes to throw it at him. Bob grabs her wrist and pushes her away. "Don't waste a perfectly good piece of meat."

"From what I've seen, meat doesn't go to waste when you're around, Bryar," she snorts.

They finish the pizza without resorting to food fights and Bob doesn't leave her apartment until early morning. He takes the long way home, walking through the city as he thinks about what Cindy said.

If he's being honest with himself, he'd admit she's probably right. Every band he's seen has been different, all of them asking for their sound a different way. In the beginning it had been challenging, but it doesn't feel like that anymore. In fact, now that Bob's putting his cards on the table, it hasn't felt like that for awhile now. He's getting to the point where he feels like he's sleep walking behind the boards.

It's probably, he realizes, a dangerous rut to climb into.

As he's climbing up the stairs to his place, Bob thinks about Ed and shudders. Ed's been doing lights in clubs for twenty years now. In fact, Bob's pretty sure Ed was doing the lights for the first show at House of Blues, almost ten years ago. Bob doesn't know what he wants to do with his life or how having a degree has made him any more prepared for anything but he does know that he doesn't want to be Ed.

He flicks on the lights in his apartment and sees his drum set in the corner. He hasn't played since he moved into the apartment, his neighbors started complaining after five minutes, and Bob's not entirely sure why he doesn't just move the kit back into his parents' basement. Bob tosses his jacket on to the couch, turns the light off and heads to the bedroom.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, an old friend from high school calls him up. Rick heard from Bob's mom that Bob was back in town and he wants to know if Bob feels like drumming in a new band he's putting together. Five minutes into the first practice, Bob agrees to join.

He asks around at a few clubs after that, looking to see if any of them need someone to do sound for local shows, and he manages to pick up a few extra gigs a week. Between HOB, band practice and the extra gigs, Bob's usually running from club to club. He's having fun, though, and the restlessness he was feeling before is gone.

Somewhere in there, Bob turns 21 and it feels almost anti-climatic. His friends throw him a huge party at one of the clubs that's been serving Bob since he was 17. The next afternoon, after Bob's puked up most of his post-drinking meal and part of his stomach lining, he crawls into the living room and collapses on his couch. There's a stray drumstick on his coffee table and Bob idly twirls it. He needs to be at work in four hours and his head is trying to explode, and while he thinks that's a perfectly good reason to miss work, Bob suspects his boss wouldn't agree.

When he walks into House of Blues, only twenty minutes late, Cindy's waiting at the booth with a Bloody Mary in one hand and some Tums in the other. She takes one look at him and shudders. "You were pretty bad when I left last night and I had a feeling you might need some help today."

Bob grabs the Tums, chews them up and washes it all back with the Bloody Mary. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and gives the glass back to Cindy. "Thanks," he says, trying to muster up some enthusiasm but failing.

She laughs and rolls her eyes.

The next six months fly by and the band breaks up for the same old reason: none of the other guys are willing to tour. Bob can't find anyone else who's interested in starting a band and actually working at it so he stops looking. He tells himself it's okay, the scene's changing and Bob's not sure he really wants to be a part of it anymore.

Bob wakes up one morning, uncomfortably aware it's been eight months since he got laid and he's settling into a rut. Later that week, there's a sign posted in the break room. It's a local tour managing company looking for sound guys. Bob stares at the flier during his break that day and again the next day.

On the third day, Cindy catches him looking at it and says, "Oh my god, seriously. If you don't call these guys, I'm going to do it for you."

She writes the number down on a scrap of paper and shoves it into the back pocket of Bob's pants. He still doesn't call for another two days. When he finally does, a bored-sounding receptionist gives him an address and tells him to come by to fill out an application.

The building is in a dingy part of Chicago and Bob stares at it warily for a few seconds before he heads in. It's not much better inside, either. There's a grey pot in the corner with a dying plastic plant slumping in the middle of it. Bob hadn't even thought that a plastic plant could look like it was dying, but there it is.

On the wall, over a sagging couch, there is a framed photo of a sand dune and two wooden deck chairs on an empty porch. The paper backing looks as though it's warped from moisture and the colors have been bleached out from the sun coming in from the dirty window across the room. Bob looks down at his feet. There's a dark stain in the carpet between his boots that makes it look like he's just pissed his pants. Bob's about to turn around and walk out when someone from behind a desk says, "Can I help you?"

Bob clears his throat and wipes his hands on his jeans. "Uh. I wanted to fill out an application?"

He steps forward then while the woman rummages around on her desk. She hands him a clipboard and a pen and gestures across the room. "You can sit over there to fill it out." Bob twists his neck over his shoulder and looks skeptically at the couch. The woman nods him away with an annoyed look, and Bob crosses the room.

The couch makes a whooshing noise when he drops his weight onto it. It startles him into half standing upright again, and for a second he debates standing before he re-settles his weight onto the edge of the cushion. He scans the form quickly and fills out the basic information first: name, address, phone number. He fucks up the zip code, but then figures it probably doesn't matter anyway. This doesn't seem like the kind of place to get hung up on small details like accuracy.

After five minutes, Bob slides the pen back into the hinge of the clipboard. The plastic cap has been chewed by someone, which Bob thinks is just fucking gross even though he does it all the time. He turns the application back in at the desk, and is about to leave when the woman holds up one finger. She's on the phone, cracking her gum while she talks. Bob shifts his weight from foot to foot as he looks around trying not to be obvious about listening in on her conversation. It sounds like she's talking to some plumber who was, apparently, supposed to fix the drain in her basement bathroom five days ago.

"It stinks like rabbit piss down there!" she snaps. Bob makes a surprised face and raises both eyebrows.

When she hangs up, she says, "Wait here."

By the time Bob opens his mouth to object, she's already turned and started to disappear into the back office. Bob watches the way her skirt sticks to the back of her nylons as she walks. Her legs are short and chunky and they seem to sprout feet out of nowhere. He wonders if this is what girls mean when they say "thick ankles" and then laugh behind the back of their hands.

Bob stuffs his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie and waits. A man comes out from the back after a few minutes. He's tall and burly-looking and walks with a thump. Bob figures him to be a part time bouncer so he almost chokes when the guy - Tim Something - reaches across the desk and introduces himself in the softest, girliest voice Bob's ever heard.

"Bob Bryar," Bob says, shaking his hand. He makes a point of not chewing on his lip nervously.

The interview, and Bob's not even sure you can call it that, only lasts about three minutes. Mostly, Bob talks about graduating and working at House of Blues and a few other clubs. Tim doesn't ask where Bob wants to be in five years, and Bob figures it's probably because he doesn't give a fuck. By the time the phone on his desk rings for the third time, Bob's on the payroll.

Afterward, Bob walks down the steps out into the fresh air, grinning. That night at the club, he pulls Cindy into the booth and tells her the news.

"I knew you were a leaver," Cindy says, but she's smiling when she pulls him in for a quick hug. "When do you start?"

"They want me to go out right away. So, like, two weeks I guess?"

Bob fidgets with the edge of the soundboard, and Cindy frowns. "Hey," she says. "Aren't you happy about this?"

"Yeah, yeah. Yeah, sure. It just hasn't sunk it yet, you know? Wow. Touring."

"Touring," Cindy repeats.

Bob grins again and scrubs his face with his hand. "Fucking awesome, right?"

 

* * *

 

Touring, it turns out, is not actually awesome.

When the guys find out it's Bob's first tour, there's some mild hazing and honestly, he expects it. He puts up with it for two days, but shuts it down as soon they try to hit his underwear stash. If anything's sacred, he finds himself explaining, it should be a man's underwear. He doesn't expect to have to establish himself as a badass, or someone not to be fucked with, but eventually things calm down and he starts to think he's going to enjoy himself.

While he's never going to be a fan of ten uninterrupted hours in a packed van and he misses regular showers, Bob likes seeing new places. He's having a great time running the boards and hanging out with the other guys, teching and talking shop. He even gets to fool around on the drums sometimes. It may not be a non-stop party, but in Bob's opinion, it's pretty fucking close.

Really, the only not-awesome thing about touring is the actual band. Bob's seen a lot of bands in his time and he's seen his share of shitty bands. These guys are definitely in the top five of those shitty bands, which is nothing to be proud of. The worst part is Bob can't leave after the show. He has to pack up his stuff after every gig and prepare to do it all over again the next day.

One night, in the middle of a show where listening to the lead singer is actually painful, Bob looks around the club. There are five people in the club and all of them have a look of horror on their face. The only difference between them and him, Bob realizes, is that they paid for this experience while Bob is barely getting paid for it.

Bob's packing up after the show when he sees the band approaching out of the corner of his eye. Before they reach him, Steve, the tour manager, steps up to Bob, pokes his finger in Bob's chest and asks, "Bryar, what the fuck are we paying you for? They sounded awful out there."

The band stops in their tracks and Gary, the lead singer, gets a satisfied look on his face. Bob waits for them to turn around and get out of earshot before he moves.

"Steve," Bob bats his finger away, "maybe you should try telling Gary to stop smoking and drinking all night before you yell at me. I can't make chicken salad out of chicken shit."

Steve snorts. He looks around quickly and says, in a low voice, "Sorry about that. I figured it would be better for everyone, especially Gary, if I did that. They really do suck, don't they?"

Bob nods and they both laugh. After a few seconds, Steve says, "Thank god we only have three more shows. What are you doing after this?"

Bob shrugs. He hasn't really thought that far in advance. He still has his apartment and House of Blues told him that he was always welcome back so he'll probably just go back there. He likes touring, but he's not willing to do it again with these guys.

"Look, man, I'm tour-managing for Thrice. Have you heard of them?"

Bob shakes his head and Steve pulls a CD out of his bag. He passes it to Bob and says, "Give it a listen. I know for a fact that they're still looking for a sound guy."

It's Bob's turn to drive that night and he slips the CD into the stereo, turns it down low, and listens as he navigates the interstate. They definitely don't suck and Bob finds himself keeping time on the steering wheel. By three am, Bob's made his decision.

The vans pull over around six for coffee and gas and Bob tracks Steve down. After a mouthful of coffee, Bob says, "Hey, that CD was pretty good. You think you can put in a good word for me with the tour manager?"

"I'll see what I can do, jackass," Steve laughs. "Seriously, I'll call my guys and have them set you up."

It works out so that Bob gets a few days off between tours. He hangs out at his apartment, sees his parents and does a billion loads of laundry. The whole time, he feels itchy and out of place. He's repacking the last of his laundry when the van pulls up outside of his apartment. There are a few familiar faces in the van, and Bob's restlessness disappears. He stows his stuff in the back and climbs in.

 

* * *

 

This time around, touring is awesome.

It helps that the band is really fucking good. They know how to put on a show and Riley, their drummer, is one of the best drummers Bob's seen in a long time. The only major downside is that there's not as much time to fool around on the drums. Riley's cool about letting Bob mess around between sound check and the show but it seems like there's always something else that needs doing instead.

The other downside is that Bob's still not getting laid much. Last time out, there was a cute merch girl who wasn't into the scene and was always willing to mock the band with Bob. They weren't exactly dating or anything, just hooking up whenever they had time and energy. Bob's pretty sure he could find another girl to date on this tour but he can't bring himself to look.

The problem, and it's more of choice than an actual problem, is that Bob really misses fucking guys. He likes the feel of stubble scratching against skin, and the person underneath him pushing back with as much aggression as Bob dishes out. Girls are nice, soft and pretty, but they don't scratch the itch Bob has under his skin. And while average sex is better than no sex, it still gets to a point where Bob's hand is more satisfying than a girl.

The tour hopscotches all over the country, but Bob's used to waking up and not knowing what city he's in. It's a nice atmosphere, too. Bob fits in well with the other techs and they spend a lot of their downtime pranking each other or playing cards and video games. There's this guy, Kevin, who Bob gets along with the best. He's originally from Philly and used to drum, too. They spend a lot of time talking about their old bands, and one night, when Bob's feeling sleepy and loose, he says, "Do you ever wish you'd stuck it out a little longer?"

Kevin turns his beer between his thighs and doesn't answer at first. The silence isn't uncomfortable though. It's thoughtful and long, and eventually Kevin says, "Yeah. Sometimes."

Bob makes a noise of assent in the back of his throat and finishes the last of his beer. He's got his head tipped back and his eyes closed. It's a warm, suspended sort of drunk and, in hindsight, Bob's not sure how it happens. He doesn't know who makes the first move, but somehow he's got Kevin's pants open. Kevin slides his hands down the back of Bob's jeans and works them down over his ass as Bob lays himself down on top of him.

They make out for a while, slow and easy kissing that gathers speed until Bob pushes his face into Kevin's neck and ruts against him. Their bare cocks slide together and Kevin makes a needy, hissing sound.

"Do you have anything?" Bob asks. Kevin shakes his head and Bob mutters, "Fuck, me neither." He rocks his hips again and feels Kevin shudder underneath him.

"Um, hang on a sec," Kevin pants. He spits on his hand and grabs Bob's dick, slicking it as much as he can, and pushes it between his thighs. He presses them together tightly after that and urges Bob on with a hand on his bare ass. It's not perfect but this time, when Bob thrusts forward, there's friction. The head of his dick bumps against Kevin's balls and Kevin groans. He manages to keep a steady rhythm while mouthing the side of Kevin's neck.

"Fuck, I. You. Oh, God." Bob makes a garbled sound and comes. His dick jerks and pulses and, once he's caught his breath again, he works his hand down between them. It only takes a few hasty strokes and Kevin's coming, too.

Afterward, they both laugh, small sounds that come out shaky in the thin night air. Bob wipes his hand clean on the grass and grimaces. They've rolled onto a different patch of grass in the deeper part of the shadows and Bob strokes his palm idly over Kevin's throat. He can feel Kevin's pulse beating under his thumb when he leans back in to kiss him again.

The thing with the merch girl had always been casual and they never actually worked together. Bob's never fucked anyone consistently that he also has to work with every day. It's easier than he figured it would be.

Mostly, he works alongside Kevin, just like always. They still make the same jokes they always did, and they drink their way through piss-warm cans of beer. The difference is now, sometimes in the afternoons to kill the boredom, they sneak off and find a place to suck each other off. It's usually hurried and quick, in musty-smelling storage closets or between the buses at the back of the lots. Sometimes, they manage to find a quiet place where they can take their time.

One afternoon, when Bob's tucking his dick back into his pants, Kevin asks, "Are you going with Steve on his next tour?"

Bob frowns as he tugs his zipper up. "Yeah, some band called The Used or some shit. Why?"

"Just curious." Kevin shrugs. "We'll be wrapping up soon, that's all."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I'm going back to Philly. I think I might hook up with some people I know. Start a band, or whatever ..."

Kevin trails off and Bob looks up at him. He looks a little uncertain. Bob steps forward and kisses him. They stand there for a minute, Bob's hand against the back of Kevin's neck, and Kevin steadying Bob's hip. When they break apart, Kevin's lips are red and slightly swollen. Bob runs his thumb over them, and Kevin smirks.

Bob nods. "I think that's a cool idea."

 

* * *

 

Three weeks later, Bob's standing by the curb at the Salt Lake City airport, trying not to be freaked out by all the pod-people around him. It's a swarming mass of people and they're all smiling and polite and it's just really fucking weird. Bob shudders and turns his back on the crowd so he can light his cigarette without feeling like a freak.

When he turns back around, there's a short guy standing in front of him. The guy looks Bob up and down and smiles as he asks, "Bob?"

Bob nods and transfers his cigarette from his hand to his mouth. "Who are you?"

"Brian." Brian rocks up and down on his heels. "I tour manage Vendetta Red, the other band on this tour. Steve got held up dealing with something at the venue so he asked me to pick you up."

"All right." Bob puts his hand out and Brian shakes it.

"Got any bags?"

Bob points at them and Brian grabs one. "Follow me, the car is this way."

On the way to the venue, Brian gives Bob the rundown on the band. "Branden's the drummer; he's got his own tech so you're off the hook there. Jepha does bass, Quinn's on guitar, and Bert is ... Bert."

Bob picked up their CD a week after he signed the new contract so he knows exactly who Bert is even though he's not totally sure what Brian means. "Got it."

Bob taps his cigarettes against the back of his hand idly while he stares out the window. He's thinking about having another one, but he's not really sure he needs any more nicotine. Before he can decide either way, Brian looks over at him and raises an eyebrow. "You nervous?"

"What?" Bob looks down at his hands and stops. "Oh. No. Just a habit, I guess."

"That's fair. Can I get one? Quinn stole my last one this morning and I was already running late so I didn't have chance to get more."

Bob opens the pack and hands a cigarette over to Brian wordlessly. He also pulls his lighter out of his pocket and passes it over to Brian who lights it while crossing two lanes of traffic. Bob reminds himself that he's from Chicago and he's seen worse even as his hand tightens on the door handle.

Brian exhales. "Thanks."

They make it to the venue quickly. There's almost no traffic on the interstate even though it's rush hour, and Bob cannot wait until they leave this state. He has no idea what the band is going to be like if they're from Utah but he hopes they're cool and not all Children of the Corn like everyone at the airport. Brian seems pretty cool, so Bob will have at least one other person to talk to.

"You're going to be on the Vendetta bus with me and the other techs."

"Cool." Bob grabs his stuff from the car.

Brian points at the two buses down the street. "There's the band bus, and the smaller one is the Vendetta bus. Steve said for you to just head inside and find him so he can give you your badge and you can start setting up for tonight."

"Got it."

"Hey, Bob," Brian says as Bob's walking away. "Do me a favor? When you meet Bert, he's going to ask you to pull his finger. Don't do it unless you want him to hump your leg."

"He's going to have a hard time humping me if I kick him in the nuts," Bob replies.

Brian laughs. "Bryar, you're going to be all right."

Twenty minutes later, Bob's got a badge and a sneaking suspicion, based on the condition of the board, that the night's show is going to be pretty rough. On his way to the Vendetta bus to drop his bags, he walks by The Used's bus and debates whether he should introduce himself and get it over with or wait until Steve does it. Before he can decide either way, a little guy with stringy hair comes skidding around the front of the bus, running like a bat out of hell.

Bob brings his arms up and tries to absorb the impact when they collide. It's a mostly-effective defensive move, but the weight of his bags causes Bob to stagger backwards slightly. The guy grins at him. Bob blinks. Bob lets go of him, shakes his head slightly and scratches his eyebrow with his thumb, then tucks his cigarette back into his mouth. "Bob Bryar," he says around his cigarette. "I'm the sound guy."

"Bob Bryar. Motherfucker! Good to meet you! Bert McCracken. If Quinn asks, I've been with you the whole time." The guy - Bert, Bob corrects himself mentally - sticks his hand out. Bob smiles wryly down at it.

"I've heard about you, I'm not going to pull your finger, dude."

"Good call." The door to the bus has fully opened and Bob looks up at the guy standing on the bottom step. "Jepha," he says. He raises a white mug with a picture of Strawberry Shortcake on the side at Bob and then blows across the surface of it.

Bob gives him a quick once-over, nodding back. Jepha steps down and heads toward the other bus. "I assume you're heading to the other bus to drop off your bags."

Bob hoists his duffel bag over his shoulder and follows Jepha down the sidewalk. Once they step inside the second bus, it takes a second or two for Bob's eyes to adjust to the dimness after being outside.

"Fucking pigsty," Jepha mutters, stepping over an empty bag of chips. Bob steps over the same bag and looks around. The kitchenette is littered with empty cans of beer and alphaghetti.

"Like your bus is any fucking better."

Bob snaps his head around to catch Brian making his way onto the bus. Jepha only hums his acknowledgment and clears a space on the couch to sit. He pulls out a crossword puzzle from under his arm and that's when Bob notices the pen tucked behind Jepha's ear.

"What's a three letter word for biblical evictee?" Jepha is frowning at his puzzle and Brian ignores him, stubbing his cigarette out in an ashtray on the counter.

"C'mon. I'll show you your bunk," Brian says to Bob. Bob follows him through the lounge towards the narrow galleyway that separates the front of the bus from the back.

People might change, but buses always stay the same. Even the stale-smelling air feels familiar. He's been around tours long enough to know the basic layout, but this is Bob's first time getting an actual bunk.

"How often do you jerk off?" Brian asks suddenly, stopping. Bob skids to a halt but he still manages to bump into Brian.

"What?"

"How often do you jerk off? Are you loud?" Brian turns around and eyes him like a hawk. "If you're fucking loud, you can have the bunk over Tom."

"I'm. Dude, the hell? No." Bob makes a disgusted face, shakes his head and starts wondering what the hell he signed up for.

"Look, you can bunk above me, but I'm not listening to you jerk off all the time, okay?"

"Um. Okay?"

Brian takes Bob's duffel bag out of his hand and throws it into the top bunk.

When they walk back up front, Jepha is chewing on his pen. "All settled?" he asks without looking up. He doesn't wait for Bob to reply. Instead he scribbles something in the margin of his puzzle and says, "Just so you know, tomorrow night Bert and Quinn are gonna try and steal the mattress off your bunk and leave it behind at the club. I suggest you be ready for them. That kind of behavior needs to be nipped in the bud."

"Um. Okay?" Bob says again.

True to Jepha's prediction, Bob does catch Bert and Quinn trying to steal his mattress the next night. Bob's checking his gear over one more time before he locks up the trailer when he hears giggling. Bob heads to the bus and, as he comes around the end of it, he says, "You don't wanna do that."

He crosses his arms over his chest, and Bert and Quinn stop in their tracks. The mattress sags between them sadly.

"We're pranking Brian," Bert improvises quickly. He bobs his head up and down and Quinn does the same. "You should give us a hand."

"Yeah," Quinn laughs. "Give us a hand, Bobby."

Bob rolls his eyes. "If I give you a hand, you'll be shitting that mattress out your ass for the next three months. Put it back on my bunk and don't touch my shit anymore. And don't call me Bobby."

"Told you," Jepha says against the back of Bob's ear. Bob jerks in shock when Jepha claps his hand over Bob's ass and squeezes. "Fuckin' kids, I tell you. They both need a goddamn babysitter." He lets go of Bob's ass and heads to the band bus without looking back.

Bob laughs, a small uneasy sound, and follows Bert, Quinn and his mattress back to his bus.

The nicest thing about the Vendetta bus, besides Bob's awesome bunk, is that The Used rarely comes on it so it's considerably mellower. The Used are all great guys and Bob loves their music, but there are days where the urge to tie Bert down and gag him for just five minutes of quiet is almost overpowering. Those are the days that Bob retreats to the back lounge of his bus, where Brian inevitably turns up. Eventually, they work out a routine, meeting in the back lounge every night after the buses pack up and pull out. One of them brings beer and the other brings cigarettes.

Once Brian finds out that Bob's from Chicago, it becomes a game of 'did you ever see so-and so?' They keep trying to find a regional band that one of them hasn't seen before. As far as they can tell, between the two of them, they've seen every shitty band to ever come out of the Great Lakes area in the last ten years.

One night, when they're really drunk, Bob tells Brian about his first tour. Brian starts laughing so hard that he falls off couch. "Holy shit, Bryar! Why did you stay on the road?"

Bob shrugs and takes a puff on his cigarette. The truth, that Bob loves doing what he does and he'd rather run sound for a shitty band than not run sound at all, is too easy. Finally, he replies, "Money's money, Schechter."

Brian pushes himself upright and lets his head drop on the couch seat behind him. He flops his head over to look at Bob and raises an eyebrow before he says, "True enough."

When they swing through Detroit, Brian gets really excited about being back in his hometown. He makes everyone go out with him after the show, even though downtown Detroit is kind of a ghost town. By the time the bars close, it's just Bob and Brian left, and Brian decides he wants to see the river before they head back to the bus. Bob follows along, not really paying attention to anything, just half-watching the bob of Brian's head as they stumble along.

After what feels like forever, they wind up in the middle of some courtyard or plaza with a bunch of freaky-ass sculptures in it. Bob stops and looks at the statues, his head swimming as he tries to focus on the plaques and figure out what the fuck he's looking at.

"Bryar," Brian shouts. "Bryar, come on."

Brian's off the side heading down some ramp, and Bob jogs over to him. The river is inky black and if it weren't for the fact that Bob can hear it moving, he wouldn't know it was there.

"So this is it, hunh?" Bob asks.

Brian runs his hand along the railing and says, "I used to skate down this rail all the time and wipe out. Cops were always hassling me and my friends."

"Yeah?"

Brian nods and they walk a bit further. There's a big white riverboat tied up and Bob reads the lettering on the side as they get closer. "Detroit Princess."

For some reason, this is the funniest thing Bob's seen all night and he starts laughing so hard that he has to sit down on the ground.

"Holy shit," he gasps. "Schechter, I'm going to start calling you Detroit Princess."

Brian kicks him in the side. "Fuck you."

Bob reads the other sign on the boat and asks, "Hey, can I rent you out for a party?"

Brian kicks him even harder and Bob falls on his side. When Bob's finally able to stop laughing, he looks up at Brian. He's trying to look angry but there's a smile playing on the edges of his lips.

"Aw, Princess, don't be mad." Bob reaches out and wraps his hand around Brian's ankle. He pulls until Brian shuffles forward. Bob begs, "Help me up, Princess."

Brian rolls his eyes and ignores him until Bob says his name. Then he leans over and grasps Bob's hands with his own. He pulls Bob into a sitting position and Bob pushes himself back up onto his feet. On the walk back to the bus, Bob can't stop giggling. He calls Brian "Princess" a few more times until Brian finally cracks a smile.

After Bob wakes up the next afternoon and drinks enough coffee to dull his hangover to a quiet roar, he grabs his phone and reprograms Brian's ID to Detroit Princess. When he shows his phone to Brian, Brian says, "Robert, I don't know how or when but mark my words, I will get my revenge."

Their next tour starts the day after the previous one ends. The only differences are that Brian takes over managing for The Used, and Bob gets put in charge of all the sound and mixing, which is pretty fucking awesome. It's also a challenge - Bert's voice is all over the place and Bob's constantly trying to find a good way to mix it. On top of that, Branden is ridiculously picky about how the drums are micced.

Every time Bob thinks they've come to an acceptable agreement, Branden changes his mind and Bob's crawling around the stage again, soldering wires. He'll sometimes pretend to get pissy but, if he's honest, he doesn't mind that much. He appreciates and respects Branden's work ethic. The thing Bob really hates is that Jepha has some kind of a sixth sense for showing up whenever Bob's on his hands and knees and saying things like, "You look good like that, Bobby. Anytime you want to get on your knees for me, just let me know."

Bob usually gives him the middle finger and continues with his business. Of course, that doesn't really stop Jepha. He actually manages to turn squeezing Bob's ass into an art form and Bob starts to wonder if Jepha's actually a ninja. It's the only real explanation for his ability to surprise Bob at any moment.

Bob tries not to spend too much time thinking about why Jepha's suddenly his second shadow. He's got ideas though, Bob's not a complete idiot. But he's also been on enough tours and worked enough clubs to know that hooking up with someone in the band is a generally a bad idea.

Bob actually does pretty well not thinking about Jepha but that changes just outside of Tulsa.

When Jepha finds him, Bob's on all fours, head bent and cursing under Branden's kit. He's pretty sure Branden's just being an unreasonable fuck this time. He's so busy coming up ways to tell him how and where to shove it that Bob lets his defenses slip a little and stops paying attention to his surroundings. This, of course, is the moment that Jepha chooses to launch another sneak attack. One hand slips down past Bob's belt and cups his ass deftly, fingers going so far as to nudge his balls from behind. Bob jerks in surprise and cracks his head on the steel rim of the cymbals. The cymbals make a sharp clanging noise, but they're not loud enough to drown out Bob's yelling.

"For fuck's sake!" Bob shouts, scrambling to his feet. His hand goes straight for his forehead and his left eye is watering when he turns to glare at Jepha, who's laughing so hard his shoulders are shaking. "Motherfucker," Bob grumbles, almost to himself. "That hurt."

"Oh, woah, hey." Jepha stops laughing and takes a step forward with his hand raised. Bob takes a defensive step backwards, and Jepha frowns. "You're bleeding. Stop a sec, lemme see."

Bob stands still, dropping his hands down to his sides as he lets Jepha's fingers curl over his chin. Jepha tilts Bob's head to one side, and Bob watches Jepha inspecting him. "S'fine," Bob mumbles. The skin on the back of his neck prickles but when he pulls his head back, Jepha follows the motion with his hand, not letting his chin go. Bob feels a sick lurch in his stomach.

"Wow. You're really a bleeder, huh?" Jepha sounds quiet and oddly intrigued.

Bob makes a face and manages to get his head free this time when he tosses his chin. He ducks his face down and pulls up the hem of his t-shirt, pressing it against his face. His breath gets caught up in the cotton and it feels hot and moist against his cheeks. When he pulls the shirt back down to look at it, it's tinged with bloody red streaks. Jepha is still quietly watching him and Bob's not sure he likes the attention. He feels boxed in.

For a few seconds, they just stand there, saying nothing. And that's practically worse. It's probably, Bob realizes when he stops to think about it later, what makes him forget his rule about staying away from the talent.

"Stop grabbing my ass all the time, unless you mean it," he says.

A tiny smile flickers at the corner of Jepha's mouth. "What makes you think I don't mean it?"

"Well." Bob stops and bites his bottom lip, thinking. "Well then, stop fucking grabbing it while I'm working. That's, like, official workplace sexual harassment. Or whatever."

Jepha doesn't answer but his fingers come up and brush over the small lump growing on Bob's forehead. They feel slightly cool and dry against Bob's skin and, as he swallows, Bob wonders how they'd feel wrapped around his dick. "And dangerous, too," Jepha murmurs.

"Yeah," Bob echoes a little too quietly. "Dangerous, too."

That night, after their set, Bob watches as Jepha makes his way through the throng of people to the sound booth. Bob's coiling an extension cord around his forearm in easy, practiced loops.

"You want some help?" Jepha asks.

Bob looks over at him. "Sure." Bob nods his head towards the plastic tub against the back wall. "There should be some duct tape in there. Grab it for me, would you?"

They break it down quickly. Bob points to whatever he needs done, and Jepha does as he's told. He's not as practiced or efficient as Bob but between the two of them, they find a quick rhythm and make short work of it. When they're finished, Jepha stands in front of Bob, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his board shorts.

"How's your head?" Jepha pulls one hand out and points his finger at Bob, drawing a circle in the air around his forehead.

Bob shrugs. "Fine."

"Okay. So," Jepha closes the small bit of distance between them. "If I grab your ass now, you're gonna be okay, right? No more bleeding and shit?"

Bob doesn't try very hard to hide his grin. "Probably not."

The kiss, when Jepha finally gets close enough to initiate it, goes from shy to dirty in a matter of seconds. Jepha's fingers unlatch the buckle on Bob's belt with one hand as he mumbles, "Bus is full."

Bob squeezes his eyes shut, trying desperately to think. It's not an easy feat with Jepha's hand curling around him, jerking him sharply. Bob's hips snap forward.

"Um. Oh, fuck."

Jepha's thumb slips over the head of Bob's dick, and Bob gasps into Jepha's open mouth. "I think. I think I saw an empty maintenance room earlier. We might have fifteen, twenty minutes, tops."

"Too far away," Jepha mutters. Jepha crowds Bob against the wall and unbuckles his own pants. "I really want you to fuck me later."

Jepha pulls his cock out and wraps his hand around it and Bob's dick at the same time. He jerks them quickly and Bob braces himself against the wall. The bricks scrape against his lower back where his shirt has risen up, and he tips his head forward, sucking a bruise against Jepha's skin. "Later," Jepha breathes, "I want your dick in my ass. Oh, fuck. But right now. Yeah. C'mon."

Bob lets out a jagged breath and rocks his hips forward. He comes embarrassingly quick and Jepha follows a few strokes behind. Bob shudders, his dick oversensitive, as Jepha squeezes the crowns together. When Jepha pulls back to clean up, Bob steals a look down.

The metal stud in Jepha's dick looks cloudy through the film of come that Jepha's wiping off with the hem of his shirt. It's almost enough to make him hard again. Bob ducks his head and pushes himself back into his pants. He winces at the wet squelch and mumbles something about needing a fucking shower. Jepha just gives him a toothy-looking grin and Bob can't help but smile back.

At first, Bob figures this is just a tour hook up, like his thing with Kevin only more of a threat to his long-term employment.

They're certainly fucking in enough cramped spaces for it to be a tour thing. And when they're hanging out with the rest of the band, Jepha horses around like usual, grinding his dick against Bert's ass and attacking Branden's ear with his tongue. Really, Bob tells himself, nothing has changed except for the fact that he's getting laid on a regular basis again.

The only problem with Bob's theory is that Jepha's there during the quiet lulls too, and doing things like slipping him a fresh pack of cigarettes whenever Bob's down to his last smoke. It doesn't take long for Bob to start wondering if there's more to it.

After a few days, he decides it doesn't matter and tries to ignore the nagging feeling that he's in over his head. More importantly, he's ignoring the fact that he wants this to be a hell of a lot more than casual.

The thing is, Bob has a whole list of things about Jepha that make his stomach buzz. He likes how Jepha smiles at him from across the room late at night, and how it makes Jepha's eyes crease. He likes the way Jepha touches Bob's elbow lightly instead of saying "excuse me" when it's just them breaking down Bob's equipment. He likes the fuzzy way Jepha stares into the distance when he's trying to remember bits of Japanese.

Bob notices all sorts of things about Jepha, things Bob likes to think other people miss, like how he'll tug on his earlobe when he's nervous; like the fact that he actually gets nervous.

He's thinking about it one night while hanging out on The Used's bus when Jepha says quietly, "You're staring."

Bob jerks his head up and blinks. "Was not," he grumbles softly.

Jepha smiles on a small huff of air. "Were too," he whispers.

They're both whispering because Bert's finally passed out. Neither one of them wants to deal with whatever prank Bert will want to pull on Quinn if he wakes up, especially because it would most likely involve a razor and Quinn's eyebrows.

Bob shrugs. "Maybe a little."

Jepha smiles wider. "What were you thinking about?"

Bob scowls. "Nothing."

"You were thinking about me, weren't you?"

"Fuck off." Bob rolls his eyes.

Jepha grins widely. "You want my hot body, don't you?"

"I want you to shut the fuck up." Bob blushes as he unfolds his legs and stands up.

It takes a few seconds of wrangling, but Jepha manages to slide out from under Bert's head, and then crosses the lounge. He walks straight into Bob, bumping their chests together and pressing a dry kiss to the side of Bob's temple. "C'mon. Goose. Take me to bed or loose me forever."

Bob rolls his eyes, but slides his hand into Jepha's and leads the way back to the bunks.

Contrary to popular rumor, there isn't enough room in a bunk space for actual sex. But there is enough room to fall sleep, pressed up together.

Jepha works his knee between Bob's thighs and tucks his hand into the back pocket of Bob's pants. Jepha presses his face into Bob's throat and breathes hotly. The moist heat turns cold when Jepha shifts and falls deeper into sleep. It's not comfortable, but Bob can't think of any other place he'd rather be.

Bob wakes up first the next morning, but that's only because Jepha's boner is digging into his hip and his knee has somehow gotten wedged right under Bob's balls. Bob really has to piss, and he tries shifting slightly and quietly to disentangle them. He reaches down to shift his dick against the inside of his pants. It's half-hard and twitches under his palm.

Jepha wakes up and blinks at him stupidly in the sepia light. "Jerk me off," Jepha whispers.

"I gotta piss."

"Jerk me off, then go piss. C'mon." Jepha tips his hips forward, insisting, and Bob sighs. "C'mon dude," Jepha whines. "Your hand's right there."

"My hand," Bob clarifies, "is on my own dick."

"Selfish bastard," Jepha grumbles. He leans up and catches Bob's earlobe in his mouth and then bites down hard. Bob jerks his head back and digs his face into the pillow. Trying to squirm away when he's trapped between Jepha and the bunk wall is futile, but it doesn't mean he won't try.

"Motherfucker," Bob hisses, rubbing his ear against the pillow. "Violence is not love."

"Jerk me off, then," Jepha whines again. "What if I promise to name my bass after you?"

"This is peer pressure," Bob argues. Even he can hear his resolve weakening.

"I'll suck your dick after I drink my tea," Jepha offers.

Bob lifts his head off the pillow and quirks his eyebrow. He's gotten blowjobs from Jepha after he's had his morning tea. They're not to be taken lightly.

"Now that's just fucking extortion."

Jepha smiles, like he's won. And really, he has, because Bob's already working his hand down the front of Jeph's pants.

Bob decides that he doesn't have to make it easy for Jepha. He twists Jepha's piercing slowly, moving it inch by inch, while his fingernails trace light lines up and down Jepha's cock.

Jepha groans and says, "I asked for a hand job, not a torture session."

"I can stop," Bob offers.

Jepha drops his head back against the pillow, the tendons in his neck tight, and moans. "Fuck, don't stop."

Bob keeps going, slow and steady all the way. Just when Jepha's ready, shaking and grabbing on to the sheets so he has some traction when he comes, Bob speeds his hand up and bites Jepha's neck.

Jepha shouts and then comes all over Bob's hand. Bob pats him gently until Jepha shoos his hand away. Bob looks at the come on his hand and wipes it on Jepha's pants.

After a minute or so, Jepha looks over at him and winks. "Nice, Bobby. Come see me after I've had my tea."

Bob's been ready since Jepha grabbed on to the back of his neck. He grabs Jepha before he can climb out of the bunk and pushes him down. "Fuck the tea."

Jepha's still laughing when his mouth closes over the head of Bob's cock, and Bob can feel the vibration straight through to his balls. He curls his hand into a fist and stuffs his knuckles against his mouth. Bob can smell Jepha on his fingers, and it doesn't take much to drive him to the place where sounds lose their sharpness. Everything is just breath in, breath out, Jepha's tongue hot and slick on the underside of Bob's dick.

Jepha sucks his fingers into his mouth alongside Bob's dick, and then runs them down the cleft of Bob's ass, a question in the scrape of nails against his skin. "Do you want, or no?"

"Yeah," Bob pants. "Yeah, I want. I want, oh…" The rest gets lost in Bob's sharp intake of breath. He doesn't normally like anything up his ass. He'd much rather do the fucking than get fucked, but Jepha's a convincing little bastard and his fingers curl straight to the spot that leaves Bob winded.

Then, Jepha swallows him deep, his throat working around Bob's dick.

"Jesus, fuck. Oh." Bob groans just as Quinn starts banging on the bunk from above.

"Shut the fucking fuck up, you motherfucking assholes. Some of us are hungover!"

Jepha hums, a sound that's probably supposed to be "fuck you" and Bob's eyes roll hard in his head as he lifts his hips off the mattress. Jepha's fingers brush over his prostate again and Bob comes, hips jerking. He spasms a few times afterwards, dry hitches that echo like aftershocks.

Jepha slides his fingers out and Bob feels an immediate quiver in the pit of his stomach. He hates the feeling afterward. While he waits for it to pass, Jepha wipes at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

Bob palms Jepha's chest lightly and muffles the urge to catch Jepha's fingers in his hand. It seems a little clingy, but then Jepha leans forward in the small space of the bunk and brushes his lips dryly across Bob's.

Maybe, Bob thinks, hooking his pinky around Jepha's, a little clingy is a little okay.

Jepha flops around and tries to get comfortable as he smiles drowsily up at Bob. His eyes are closing when Bob remembers the whole reason he was going to get up in the first place.

"Jeph." Bob nudges him. "C'mon, Jepha."

"Mmmrph." Jepha rolls a little and Bob sighs.

He pushes himself up and then throws one leg over Jepha. Once his foot makes solid contact with the ground, Bob wriggles a bit and gets his other leg out from under Jepha. A little push and he's in the aisle, the bathroom in sight.

Bob sighs in relief while he pees. He looks at the mirror briefly and decides to brush his teeth while he's there and they still have toothpaste. Branden is a little fanatical about dental hygiene and these guys go through toothpaste quicker than any band Bob's ever met.

He leaves the bathroom and, after a quick debate, decides to climb back in with Jepha. As he's pulling back the curtain to Jepha's bunk, someone whispers his name from the front of the bus. Bob looks up and sees Brian standing in the doorway. He lets the curtain drop shut and walks up to the front. There's already a pot of coffee brewed and Bob helps himself to a cup while Brian sprawls out on the bench.

Brian cracks his eyes open a slit and looks at Bob when he sits down next to him. He closes his eyes again but not before Bob can notice how red they are.

"You hungover?" Bob asks.

"Ugh, a little. Fucking Bert and his fucking tequila shots." Brian rubs a hand over his face and opens his eyes again. "So, I didn't say anything when you two were fucking in closets but now that you're spending the night on the bus, I guess I should say something."

Bob groans. "Schechter, don't."

"All I'm saying is that if shit turns bad and he decides he's tired of your face, then you're the one who gets fired."

"I know." Of course Bob knows.

"And yet, you're still having sleepovers," Brian says wryly.

"We're both adults. If it doesn't work out, then I'll just pack up and move on." Bob hasn't really thought much about what he would do if it didn't work out and it's not something he really wants to talk about before his first cup of coffee.

Brian flaps his hands and rolls over onto his side. "Fine, fine. You're a big boy. I'll just shut up and mind my own business."

Bob lifts his coffee mug in a silent salute.

A few minutes later, Brian's breath is coming slow and soft. Bob stands up and puts his mug near the sink before he grabs a blanket off the back of the couch and throws it over Brian. He heads back to the bunks and pulls back Jepha's curtain. Jepha is lying with his back against the wall, his eyes open, and he smiles when he sees Bob.

Bob log rolls onto the mattress and stays still while Jepha re-arranges himself. Once he's comfortable, even though Bob's not sure how anyone can be comfortable with their arms above their head, Jepha says, "So Brian gave you the talk."

"Mmm," Bob mutters.

"You still came back." Jepha sounds pleased, and Bob can't help but smile.

"Yep." Bob puts his hand over Jeph's mouth before he can say anything else. "Go back to sleep."

 

* * *

 

Bob's leaning against the trailer, watching the techs load up and smoking a cigarette while trying to find enough energy to walk to the bus. There's two more shows on the tour and then it's home for a break that can't come soon enough. Bob's at the point where he wouldn't think twice about killing someone if it meant that he got to sleep in his own bed and take a real shower.

Someone leans up against the trailer next to him. "Hey," Brian mutters.

Bob rolls his head to look at Brian and grunts.

"All right." Brian pulls a cigarette out of his pants and lights up. After he takes a few puffs, he says, "So listen, I got this demo."

Brian's always getting demos from different bands. Most of the time, hell, all of the time, they're pretty awful. Sometimes they'll put them on in the back lounge just for the laughs. Bob's not really in the mood tonight, he's trying to hard to keep his eyes open, and he's about to say so when Brian says, "I think these guys could be it."

"Yeah?" Bob's awake now. Brian's been talking about getting off the road and finding a band since the first night they hung out.

"Yeah." Brian nods and doesn't saying anything else.

"Hey, if you don't want to tell me about it, I can always go to bed." Bob moves to walk off and Brian yelps.

"Hang on!"

Bob resettles himself and asks, "What's the name of the band?"

"My Chemical Romance."

"That's," Bob's first instinct is to say it's a pretty dumb name but he thinks about it for a second longer. "God, that's actually pretty good."

"I know." Brian sounds just as shocked. "They got it from a book or something. They just released their first record."

"And they don't have a manager?" Bob stubs his cigarette out on his shoe and drops the butt into his pocket to get rid of later.

"As far as I can tell, not really. The guy who sent me the demo says there are a few people trying to get them to sign but so far, they're not biting." Brian runs his hand through his hair and takes a swig from his beer. "They're playing in Hoboken in four days so I'm going to fly out and see if they're any good live."

"Shit," Bob whistles softly. "You are serious about them."

"Fuck yeah. You want to hear it?"

"Sure, why not?"

They head back to the bus and Brian puts the CD in the stereo. The production is a little rough and the playing a little sloppy but Bob can definitely hear what's got Brian so excited.

The morning after the last show, Jepha wakes Bob up with a blowjob and makes him promise that Bob will be with the band when they go back on the road in three weeks.

Bob and Brian share a cab to the airport that afternoon and they hang out at Bob's gate, making fun of the people, until Bob's flight is called.

"So hey," Bob stands up and stretches before he grabs his bag, "thanks."

"Thanks for what? Warning you away from Jepha?" Brian asks.

"You were just doing your job," Bob smirks. "And it's not like I actually listened to you."

Brian cuffs Bob on the head and moves away before Bob can retaliate. "Whatever, asshole. I'll see you in a few weeks."

"Have fun kissing ass," Bob calls out as he gets in line. Brian gives him the finger and waves as he walks away. The old lady in line behind Bob shoots him a dirty look and Bob shrugs apologetically.

 

* * *

 

Bob gets off the plane in New York three weeks later, and is promptly bum rushed by Bert at the baggage claim.

"Oof," Bob grunts as Bert hops on his back.

"Hi Bob!" Bert exclaims.

"Hey Bert." Bob switches his bag to his other hand and tries to redistribute some of Bert's weight.

"Jepha's pretty psyched that you're here. He's kind of a bitch when he's not getting laid."

"Bert, shut the fuck up," Jepha says from Bob's left.

Bob looks over at him and fights the urge to grin. "Hey."

Jepha winks and nudges Bob's shoulder with his own before he grabs Bob's bag from his hand.

They head straight to the venue. Bob was pretty happy on vacation, showering and doing laundry and leaving dirty voicemails for Jepha, but he's even happier now that he's back behind the board. Jepha corners him in the bathroom before they go on and gives him a quick handjob, making them both late.

They meet up with Brian in Massachusetts at some festival or something. When the bus pulls up outside the club, he's waiting for them, grinning and smoking furiously. "'Bout time you fuckers showed up," he says as they stumble off the bus.

"Your mom wouldn't let us leave until we all fucked her twice," Bert replies as he gives Brian a noogie.

Brian pushes him off and laughs. "In your dreams. Come on, I want you guys to meet the band."

The band is all over the place before the show but Brian manages to get all of them together to do quick introductions. Bob has a hard time connecting Gerard to the guy on the CD, singing like his life depended on it, but he sees it the minute My Chem takes the stage. The intensity of their live show blows him away.

The Used goes on a few bands later, and Bob slips away after he's packed up his board while Bert and the rest of the guys head straight for the bar. He's dying for a cigarette and some fresh air. He's out there for a few minutes, staring up at the streetlights and blinking quick enough to make the lights fuzzy. When the door opens, Bob shakes his head to clear his eyes and looks over to see Brian staring at him.

"Hey," Brian nods. "Cigarette?"

Bob tosses him the pack and then his lighter.

Brian murmurs thanks as he cups his hand around the cigarette to light it. On the exhale, he asks, "So what'd you think?"

"They're good," Bob allows. "They could be better, but I think they just need more experience." Bob leans his head against the wall. "I also think it's probably a bad idea to let Bert hang out with them unsupervised."

Brian laughs, short and sharp. "God, you're right about that."

They finish their cigarettes in silence. Bob puts his out on his shoe and tucks it in his pocket to get rid of later. When he looks up, Brian's staring at his feet. "You sure about this, Schechter?"

Brian looks up and shrugs. "As sure as I can be. They're not making it easy, though. If they're not telling me to go fuck myself, then they're walking away whenever I try to talk to them about business stuff. And they're not committing to shit. I'm about to put my life on hold for these jackasses and I'm technically not even their damn manager."

"Think of it this way: you'll appreciate it that much more when they finally give it up for you." Bob pulls open the back door, and motions Brian inside and back toward the bar.

"True. Really, how long can they hold out?" Brian yells over the crowd.

 

* * *

 

Six months.

It turns out the guys in My Chem can hold out for six months. Bob admires them for it, for their dedication to doing things on their own terms and not rushing into anything. Unfortunately for Bob, this same dedication means that Brian's in a pissy mood for all of the fall and Bob is the one who hears about it. He and Brian are on completely different tours, but Brian calls him, frustrated and angry, every time the guys blow him off or turn him down again.

"I know I've got Ray and Matt," Brian says when he calls to wish Bob a happy birthday. "I think Mikey might be coming around too. I just can't figure out what is going on with Frank and Gerard."

Bob doesn't see actually see the band again until February when The Used and My Chem do a string of shows together. He's tour managing and doing sound for The Used this time around while Brian's hanging around My Chem, trying to make himself indispensable. The crazy thing is that it seems like it's working. They still haven't officially hired him, but Bob notices the guys defer to Brian for management stuff and Bob thinks it'll happen soon.

On the first day of the tour, Frank and Mikey set up shop right next to sound booth while Bob's getting ready for the show and talk loudly about Frank's mic being wonky and wonder why Mikey's amp has so much feedback. Bob ignores them but after a few days of it, he takes pity on them and gives a few hints on how to fix things. The next day, Frank asks Bob to do My Chem's sound at the next show.

Bob laughs and says, "You can't afford me, little man."

"Fuck you." Frank swings at Bob's arm and Bob swats him away. "You should do it for free so you can tell all your friends that you got to do sound for My Chemical Romance. They'll be so fucking jealous." Frank dances closer to Bob, arms flailing, and Bob steps back to protect his eyes.

"Fine, fine. I'll do it tonight, but it's only for tonight, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. You're fucking awesome, Bob." Frank turns around and runs toward the stage, shouting, "Mikey, he fell for it! We got him!"

Bob sighs and turns back to the board. He's totally going to wind up doing their sound for the rest of the tour, he just knows it.

Brian sits down next to Bob before My Chem goes on that night and shakes his head.

"What?" Bob mumbles.

"I never knew you were this soft, Bob. You're like a giant gooey marshmallow."

"Whatever, I'm doing them and you a favor."

The guys are on that night, really fucking on, and Frank and Gerard whip the crowd into a frenzy. As they head offstage, Brian looks over at Bob and says, "They're only getting better."

"Yeah. Makes me miss drumming," Bob replies as he starts checking the levels for The Used. "If I could drum for a band like that, I would."

There's no response from Brian and Bob looks up to see Brian staring at him. "What?"

"I don't think I've ever heard you talk about actually missing the drums," Brian answers. "I forget that you know how to play."

"Yeah, well, so do I sometimes."

Later that night, after the show but before the buses pull out, Brian walks on to The Used's bus and raises his arms triumphantly. Bob and Jepha are in the middle of a wicked game of Spit and Bob doesn't acknowledge Brian until the game's over. When Bob looks at him, Brian says, "They hired me."

"Nice," Jepha says. "Congrats, man."

Bob smiles. "See, Princess, aren't you glad you held out so you could pop their manager cherry?"

Brian smacks him upside his head. "Fuck off, Bryar, stop calling me that. Mikey's picked it up and I'd really like it if my band had some level of respect for me."

Bob gives him a knowing look. The 'my band' sounds good coming out of Brian's mouth. Brian picks up on it too and gives him a goofy grin.

Bob shakes his head. "Yeah, because they respected you so much more before they found out about the nickname," he snorts. "Seriously, Schechter, that's awesome."

Brian must tell the rest of My Chem what Bob said because a few days later, Ray makes the first crack about Bob handling the drums when Matt's too hungover to anything but moan. Mikey and Frank soon follow suit. Bob's flattered but it's also kind of awkward. It's only a joke, but the guys are making them in front of Matt. Bob knows that shit can get old fast and he goes out of his way to stop the jokes before they start until eventually he's just the sound guy again.

The Used tour with My Chem throughout the spring and part of the summer. Once that tour's done, they head back to Utah to write and work on the next album. Bob picks up a tour managing gig through a friend of Brian's.

Over the summer, Bob tries to give Jepha some space so they can write in peace but Jepha calls or texts him at least once a day. Mostly they're dirty messages that leave Bob uncomfortably turned on with no place to jerk off in private.

"You're such a shit," Bob complains, one afternoon. Jepha cackles and says he's touching himself. Bob groans, and does a quick scan round the venue. People are milling around everywhere, and there's no where to go. "I hate you," Bob adds.

"I'm so hard," Jepha breathes. "Do you want to hear me come?"

Bob does. "No," he says, flatly. "I'm supposed to be working."

Jepha laughs. "Me too. I'm in Bert's bedroom."

"With your pants down?" Bob chuckles.

There's no response from Jepha, just the quickening sound of his breath rattling against the receiver. Bob's ears go hot and by the time Jepha comes, Bob's on the verge of locking himself in a questionable bathroom.

* * *

 

In October, The Used and My Chem meet up to do a benefit show. Bob's looking for Jepha before they go on, trying to collect on a pre-show blowjob promised to him three cities ago, when he walks in on a My Chem band meeting.

"Bob," Mikey jumps up, "I was just telling Brian that you'll totally go to Europe with us in January and do our sound, right?"

Everyone, including Brian, turns to look at him, and Bob groans. He had been planning on taking some time off after this tour, spending some time in Chicago and maybe even going to LA to hang out with Jepha for a little bit. He hadn't been planning on riding around Europe in a tiny van, working for free.

Mikey gives him the Bambi eyes and Bob sighs. He knows they're recording the second album in February and need to finish the tour on a strong note to keep the label happy.

"Yeah, okay," he says. Vacations, Bob figures, are only really fun for the first three days anyways.

He tells Jepha about it later that night, when they're playing video games in the front lounge. Jepha pauses the game and puts down the controller. "You're seriously going to Europe with them and doing sound for free?"

"Sure," Bob says, fiddling with the controller. "Why the fuck not? I've got enough in savings and I don't have any other gigs lined up."

"You're such a fucking pushover." Jepha shakes his head. Any other time, he'd sound almost affectionate, but now he just sounds disbelieving. Ever since Bob rejoined the band after finishing up his previous tour, things have been weird between them, and Bob can't figure out why.

Instead of telling Jepha to fuck off because it'll only lead to another fight and Bob's not in the mood, he flicks his controller cord at Jepha. "Are we going to finish playing or what?"

Jepha unpauses the game without saying anything.

It's a little tense the next morning and Bob decides to leave Jepha alone until he pulls the stick out of his ass. At least this is what he tells Brian when Brian comes over to The Used's bus for coffee and asks, "Is everything okay?"

"It's fine, Jeph's just being Jeph." Bob shrugs.

"Is he mad about Europe?"

Bob stares at Brian. "Why would he be mad about that?"

"I don't know," Brian looks over Bob's shoulder for a few seconds, until Bob gives him a pointed look. Brian clears his throat. "It just seems like he was fine last night and then you told him and now he's pissy. That's all."

"Don't worry about it." Bob points to the bus. "Are you coming on the bus or staying on the van?"

"I'm staying on the van."

Bob leaves for New Jersey and then Europe a couple of days after his birthday. He tries talking to Jepha before he leaves, find out what his problem is, but Jepha just waves his hand and says, "It's cool, Bobert. Don't worry about it."

 

* * *

 

Bob's been watching Matt, really watching him, since they got off the plane in London. When the band's not performing, Matt's usually needling Ray or picking fights with Frank over stupid shit that Bob can't even follow half the time.

Matt, Bob has decided, has a chip the size of a boulder on his shoulder and Bob really doesn't have time for that shit.

He's constantly riding Bob's ass about the mixing, a neat little trick he picked up from Branden. What Matt doesn't get is that there's a huge difference between him and Branden. In Branden's case, it is legitimate distortion. In Matt's case, it's the drumming that's off. When Ray suggests he use a click track, Matt flat-out refuses and it goes downhill from there.

Gerard and Matt get into the same fight every time they come off stage, usually before they can even make it into the back rooms. It always begins with Gerard's thin shout rising two octaves, "You were ahead the whole time!" and ends with someone – usually Bob – pulling Frank out of the room by his shoulder with the promise of a hot shower and a cold beer.

For a while, Bob just hangs in the background watching while Brian tries to keep the guys going. He can tell that Mikey is sleeping less and less by the plum circles ripening under his eyes, and Gerard's skin is waxy-looking, like he's sweating out the last of a low-grade fever. On top of everything else, he's pretty sure that Gerard's upped his pill intake.

Ray is constantly tugging on the ends of his hair and shooting Gerard worried glances. Frank keeps tucking himself away with his cell phone, having hushed conversations with Jamia. It is, Bob thinks, all going to hell in a hand basket.

In Hamburg, Bob sits outside in the early evening light with Brian and drains the top half of his beer before he says anything.

"I think you need to get a handle on this." Bob states the obvious, looking out at the dumpsters lining the parking lot so he doesn't have to face Brian.

"You don't fucking say," Brian snaps at him. Bob can see Brian's profile shift out of the corner of one eye as Brian rubs his hand over his face, scrubbing the skin under his eyes with the heel of his hand.

"It's seven o'clock, do you know where your lead singer is?" Bob mutters.

Neither of them says anything for a few minutes until Brian sighs heavily. "I don't know what to do anymore. I've tried talking to him but he doesn't listen. I've tried reasoning with him but he's not really interested in reason."

Bob nods. "Might not be your only problem," he says finally, flicking the tab of his empty beer can with his thumb.

Brian levels him with a stern look, and Bob refuses to flinch.

"I'm just saying out loud what we're both thinking. There's more than one problem here, Schechter. And even if you get Gee straightened out…"

"…there's still Matt," Brian finishes. He sounds tired and after a few seconds, he cradles his head in his hands and hisses, "Fuck."

Bob nods again. He wishes for a second that he had another beer and instead fishes around in his pocket for his cigarettes. He pulls out a cigarette for himself before he passes the package over to Brian. Bob watches Brian shake one loose while Bob flicks the lighter a few times until the flame catches. Bob sucks against the filter until the tip flares, and then passes the lighter over to Brian too.

By the time Brian's lit his cigarette, Bob's got his arms hooked around his knees, one arm hanging loosely in front of him. He's thinking about the last few fights between Ray and Matt while he stares idly down at the cigarette burning between his fingers. The ash is already starting to droop.

"I think Frank's near his breaking point, too," Bob says after another quiet drag. He blows a stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, away from Brian. "Matt's always fucking riding him about shit and he's only going to take it for so much longer."

"Are you shitting me?"

Bob shakes his head. "I wish I was. I mean, he loves the band, no doubt. They all do, but -- "

Brian bows his head and Bob, for the first time since they've sat down, turns to look at him. Bob's not sure what else to say. Finally he settles on, "They're so fucking close, too. I wish there was something I could do, man."

Brian snorts. "You could try pulling a magic wand out of your fucking ass and waving it around."

Bob smiles wryly, and then Brian blinks at him, owlishly in the dusky light. When Bob sees the exhaustion rimming Brian's eyes, his stomach drops out, hard and fast, and the back of his throat goes tight.

For a split second, he thinks about leaning over, closing the gap between them and brushing his mouth over the corner of Brian's eyelid. He jumps up from the curb instead.

"I should go," Bob says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Are you going to be all right if I go?"

"Yeah, go." Brian waves his arm in the air over his head. Bob hesitates, and Brian says, "Go. Go. I'm fine."

When Bob makes his way back to the hotel, the party – the band minus Matt – is in full swing. Gerard and Frank are already high and Frank is bracing himself against Gerard, trying to stifle his pot giggle with the back of his hand. Instead, it just sounds like he's choking. Gerard thumps his back with one hand while he tries talking over him.

"Jesus, Frankie," Bob mutters, squeezing past him. He snags a bottle of water and tosses it to Frank, who fumbles it for a second before finally getting the cap off. Frank upends the bottle, dripping water down his chin. When he stops chugging it, he shoots Bob a stoned grin.

"Saved my fucking life, Bryar. You're a motherfucking God."

"Whatever you say, Frank."

Bob catches Ray's attention after that and raises his eyebrows as he fishes around in the fridge for a cold beer. He wants to know where Matt took off to, but Ray shrugs, as if to say he doesn't fucking know or care. Bob nods back because, really, fair enough.

The beer is lukewarm, but he takes one anyway, cracking the tab while he leans against the bathroom counter.

Later that night, Bob crawls into his bed and thinks about fucking Jepha. He closes his fist around the head of his dick, and licks the corner of his mouth while he imagines folding Jepha's legs back, holding the cheeks of his ass open with his thumbs, and pressing his dick forward with a bitten-back sigh.

This isn't the first time he and Jepha have been on different tours, but it is the first time things between them have been so weird. Last time around, they spoke or emailed at least once a week. This time, there's no contact from Jepha at all and Bob's not sure what to make of it.

He could make the first move, try and track down Jepha, but he doesn't. He thinks about it though. He even walks off a couple of times with the intention of calling, searching for a quiet spot that still picks up a signal. When he finally finds that spot, he hesitates and calls his mom instead.

Bob pushes Jepha to the back of his mind and throws himself into helping Brian. He puts in extra time mixing the sound and helping with the general setup and teardown at each new venue. He puts himself between Frank and Matt, sometimes physically, and does whatever he can to soothe Ray. Twice he sits up with Gerard, listening to him ramble until Bob's eyelids feel like they're going to start bleeding from exhaustion.

They finally make it to the last show in France and immediately after they get off stage, the guys lock themselves into a hotel room for another band meeting. Bob and Brian sit in the bar next to the hotel, not talking, until the band walks into the bar. Everyone's smiling and relaxed, and even Ray and Matt are joking around with one another. Bob looks over at Brian and Brian just shrugs.

 

* * *

 

Bob doesn't see Jepha again until he meets back up with The Used in early February.

Jepha grabs his ass and says, "So how was it?"

Bob's on his knees under Branden's kick drum at the time and he jolts, smacking his head against the tom. "Fuck, Howard. I thought we were past that."

When Bob kneels back on his heels, rubbing his head, Jepha is grinning down at him. "Good to have you back."

Bob grunts, a pissy sound because he's tired and hungry. Jepha's grin slips a little, his face going a little too still in the late afternoon light.

After being on the road with MCR, Bob's gotten used to the weird strains of tension, silences that spread like a virus, but this is different. There's something quiet and dark in the way that Jepha's smile doesn't quiet reach his eyes and it sets Bob on edge.

He tries to shake the feeling off and clears his throat, ducking his head as he focuses on slotting his screwdrivers back into the canvas roll on the floor. When he's finished, he flips the canvas over and rolls it up, tying it off the ends in a neat, practiced knot.

"It's good to be back," Bob says finally. It feels like a lie, and Jepha laughs, a sharp barky sound. Bob smiles back at him, confused.

"Let's get something to eat," Jepha says, standing up. Bob's not hungry but he follows along anyway.

That night, after the show, Bob breaks things down with the crew and watches as Jepha makes his way back to the bus. It's weird to be packing up without Jepha constantly chirping beside him. Bob's stomach prickles, but he pushes it aside.

By the time he's through, the party is in full swing. Thirty minutes before they're ready to roll out, Jepha nods his head toward the band's bus and Bob trails after him into the back lounge. Jepha locks the door behind them and, when Quinn rattles it, Jepha shouts, "Fuck off, we're fucking!"

"Not on the fucking couch!" Quinn shouts back.

Bob smirks and pulls Jepha onto his lap. Jepha follows willingly and opens his mouth when Bob brushes his lips against it. It's a soft gesture and Bob lets his eyes slide shut. He likes the steady rock and rhythm of Jepha's lips against his and they kiss for a long time, slow and lazy, until Jepha starts grinding down onto Bob's cock, pulling at the hem of Bob's shirt.

"Fuck, I missed this," Bob breathes. Jepha doesn't reply as Bob undoes the latch of Jepha's buckle and wraps his fingers around Jepha's cock. His thumb bumps against the cool metal ring there and Jepha groans. It's a wet, broken sound that hits Bob right in the sternum.

They strip quickly and Bob tips Jepha off his lap and onto the couch, sinking to the floor and kneeling between Jepha's thighs. When he glances up, Jepha is staring down at him, pupils blown wide. He's got a dazed look on his face and Bob feels a spark of something in his chest.

Jepha drops his gaze lower and licks his lips. He looks greedy and Bob pulls his dick back from his belly with one hand, closing his mouth around the crown. The metal ball at the end of Jepha's cock ring rubs against the roof of his mouth and Bob flicks his tongue over it while he works two fingers into Jepha's ass.

Jepha's hips snap up off the couch and Bob absorbs the shock of it, swallowing around his dick and opening the back of his throat.

"Oh God, that's good." Jepha fumbles with his free hand, circling the back of Bob's head.

Bob sets up a quick rhythm after that, then pulls off and sits back on his heels. Jepha twists against the couch, one hand thumbing his chest idly, as Bob lines up three fingers and presses in past the second knuckle.

He's panting, sharp and steady and when Bob crooks his fingers, Jepha groans. Bob leans forward, stretching across Jepha to catch his mouth. "Fuck me," Jepha mumbles, turning his head away from the kiss. "Christ. Just fuck me."

Bob slides his fingers out, and his dick in. He fucks Jepha hard and deep, and somewhere in the middle of it, Bob realizes it's for the last time.

Afterwards, Bob's quiet as he hands Jepha a dirty t-shirt, He watches as Jepha wipes the come off his stomach. "We have an early call tomorrow," Jepha says, tossing the shirt onto the floor. Bob grunts in agreement. He's seen the schedule.

Jepha sighs heavily and suddenly there's a nervous, sick flutter in the back of Bob's throat.

"Bob," Jepha says quietly.

For a few seconds, they're both totally silent until Bob finally nods. Jepha doesn't say anything while Bob fumbles for his pants on the floor. At the doorway, Bob stops and looks at Jepha again. He's pulled his boxers back up and is staring across the room when Bob shakes his head.

"This has been over for you for a while, hasn't it?" Bob asks.

Jepha lifts his shoulders helplessly. "Maybe?"

Bob walks out of the lounge, slamming the door behind him as Quinn and Bert are getting back on board. Bert's hair is wet and plastered to the side of his face, and Bob hopes for everyone's sake that it's water and not beer.

"Bobert!"

Bob gives him a curt nod and says, "Quinn" as he does his best not to jog down the stairs and out the bus. He cuts across the tarmac quickly and by the time he's pushed his way through the doors of tech bus, his pulse is beating thick against the back of his throat.

Bob feels like he's going to throw up and he wants to punch something until his knuckles bleed. He goes to bed instead and stares at the ceiling until his eyes start to burn.

The next day, Bob keeps his head down and goes through the motions. He does the same the day after, and the day after that too. On the fourth day, he cracks and corners Jepha as he's walking out of the craft tent.

Jepha blinks at him. His face is placid and still, and he hunches his shoulders under his ears as he stuffs his fists into his pockets.

"Look, I'd kind of like to know what the fuck happened the other night," Bob grinds out through clenched teeth. "You've been weird but I thought it was because of Europe. I thought we were okay, but apparently we weren't and you never said anything." Bob takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "I thought we had something here and now we don't?"

"It was never a thing," Jepha says carefully. Bob watches as he stuffs his hands deeper into the pockets of his hoodie. The wind has picked up and Jepha's hair keeps blowing around his head in loose strands.

"Not a thing?" Bob stares at him. "You are so fucking full of shit. Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I thought you knew that,"Jepha tries.

Bob swallows around the lump in his throat.

"Bob. Bob. C'mon man. I thought you knew. I thought you knew it was just fun. That it, that we ...It was, you know. Touring."

Jepha hesitates and Bob watches him look past Bob's shoulder, toward the bus, toward where Bert and Quinn are screaming and chasing each other with water balloons. When he speaks, he sounds sadder than Bob figures he has a right to be. "I thought you knew."

Bob snorts. "Well, I didn't."

"It's not that I don't like you. I do, I fucking do. I —"

"Don't," Bob snaps. "Don't fucking pull that shit with me."

Bob leaves him standing on the edge of the parking lot. Later, once he's drunken enough to numb everything but the urge to crawl into Jepha's bunk, he phones Brian.

"You fucking knew," Bob slurs, tipping the last of his beer down his throat.

Brian doesn't deny it and that's all the confirmation Bob needs. "I'm sorry," Brian says finally. "He's not a bad guy, Bob. He's just," Brian hesitates. "I guarantee Jeph has no idea why he did this."

Bob sniffs and rubs his hand under his nose.

He spends the rest of the tour with the other techs who tease Bob about slumming it but stop when they notice Jepha and Bob giving each other a wide berth. He spends a lot of time fucking off, avoiding people and not answering his phone unless it's his mom.

By the time Bob's ready to face the world again, it's a month later and his voicemail is full. He calls Brian first.

Brian picks up and says, shrilly, "Oh my god, Bob Bryar is calling me. Oh my god. What could I have possibly done to deserve this honor?"

"Fuck off, Princess," Bob laughs.

"Come over here and make me," Brian retorts. He's silent for a beat before he asks, quietly, "You okay?"

"Yeah." Bob nods even though Brian can't see it. "I am."

"Good because I've got some serious shit going on."

Brian tells him that Gerard's drinking has gotten worse and that everyone has tried talking to him about it but he just waves them off. The situation with Matt isn't much better and Brian jokes that My Chem really would be better off if Bob was the drummer. Bob's too tired to react so he changes the subject back to Gerard.

The tour doesn't go quickly but it goes and Bob thinks that has to count for something.

Halfway through July, Brian calls Bob and tells him about Gerard's coke problem.

"Fuck," Bob breathes as he sits down on his couch. It doesn't really surprise him. He's seen Bert doing a lot more coke lately and where Bert goes, Gerard is likely to already be. "What are you going to do?"

Brian sounds tired and slightly hysterical when he laughs. "How the fuck should I know? He knows he's got to stop, but I don't think he even knows how to go about doing it. Joe and Mikey are keeping an eye on him until they finish Warped, but we've got that stupid festival in Japan after that."

Bob's seen a lot of friends go down Gerard's path and few have made it out the other side. It's a shitty thing to happen, especially with the second album doing as well as it is.

If Bob hadn't already signed the contract for Projekt Revolution, he'd offer to go to Japan for the show and support the guys, but a contract's a contract. It's not like he has to go to out of his way to avoid Jepha these days either. Branden and Quinn are constantly sniping at one another, and they spill over on to everyone else. The only time Bob sees the four of them together anymore is on stage.

On top of that, outdoor amphitheatres are harder to set up and the sound's never completely right, so Bob's taping wires and trying new levels right up until the band takes the stage. The heat just makes everything that much worse. For the first time since he started touring, Bob's pretty fucking miserable.

The way Bob's luck is going, he's actually not surprised when he takes a step wrong while carrying an amp and breaks his ankle. It hurts but it's not the worst thing Bob's ever done, and the hospital discharges him in time for that night's show. They also give him a lot of painkillers too which helps a lot.

In the beginning of August, the tour stops in Chicago and Bob goes to breakfast with his parents. After his mom clucks over his ankle for a few minutes, she pulls out five million pictures of his nieces and makes Bob look at each one. The girls have changed completely since the last time Bob saw them and he's surprised to realize that he's upset about missing out on them. As he's hugging his mom goodbye outside the restaurant, Bob thinks he'd like to spend enough time in Chicago to actually get sick of his family.

When Bob gets back to the Tinley Center, Jepha's knuckles are bruised and there's a sharp quiet in the band's dressing room. Bob shakes his head and grabs his gear to set up for the show. This isn't how he wants to do his job.

He doesn't get a chance to talk to Brian before My Chem leaves for Japan and he decides that no news is good news. When his phone vibrates in his pocket a couple of weeks into August, Bob pulls it out and sees Detroit Princess on his caller ID. Bob moves into a private lounge before he picks up.

"Hey," he says. "How did it go?"

"Pretty fucking shitty," Brian says, tightly. "Frank almost quit, Ray threw a trashcan across the room, and Gerard detoxed on the flight back. Also, Matt's out of the band."

"Are you kidding me?"

"I fuckin' wish. Gerard's locked up with his therapist right now. She says it's going okay, but only his parents and Mikey are allowed to see him."

"What happened with Matt?" Bob rubs his hand over his face and shifts his weight off his bad ankle.

"Matt fucking happened to Matt. Ray kept giving him chances but it just wasn't working." Brian sounds tired and resigned, like he's had this conversation a hundred times already.

"Shit."

"Want to hear the funniest thing?" Brian asks. Before Bob can say anything, Brian continues. "We're shooting the video for 'I'm Not Okay' in two days."

Bob whistles. "Sucks to be you guys."

"Well, Bryar, in a few seconds, you're really going to be feeling our pain. I didn't exactly call to catch you up on the band's latest drama."

Bob makes a face as he asks, "What are you talking about?"

Brian exhales loudly. "The guys want you in the video and maybe the band."

"Doing sound?"

"Drumming."

"You mean they want me to audition." Bob's stomach flips.

"No, they want you. If you want to pretend that you have to audition, I'm sure they'll humor you."

"They've never heard me play!" Bob idly wonders if hallucinations are a side-effect of the painkillers.

"Yeah. So what you say?"

Bob can hear the stress in Brian's voice, hears everything he's not saying, and he says the only thing he can. "I'll be on the first flight out tomorrow."

"Really?" Brian asks disbelievingly.

"Really." Bob decides not to mention his ankle. "But I'm going to insist on an audition first. They need to hear me before they make a decision."

"Fine, fine," Brian agrees. "Call me when you have your flight details."

The audition goes as well as it can considering that it mainly consists of Bob learning the drumline for 'I'm Not Okay' and playing it as much as he can over the next twenty-four hours. It turns out he can play it a lot.

After they go to LA and shoot the video, Ray, Mikey, Gerard, and Frank disappear into the practice space while Bob and Brian stand around outside, squinting at each other in the sun. In a way, Bob feels like they're back in the bar in France. This time, though, the band's making a decision that can completely change Bob's life. Brian doesn't say anything, just makes a few phone calls and supplies Bob with a steady flow of cigarettes.

Fifteen minutes after they go in, the guys come out and Ray asks, "You want to join our band?"

Bob shrugs casually. "Yeah, I guess."

Frank whoops and takes a running jump at him. Bob grunts and winces a little as Frank climbs him. Mikey sees him wince and says, "Frank, I think you just broke Bob."

"No, it's okay. I broke my ankle a few weeks ago and it's still pretty sore."

Frank hops down and everyone turns to look at Bob. Finally, Gerard asks, "Is your ankle broken right now?"

"Yeah," Bob shrugs.

Gerard whistles. "You're hardcore."

"I just want to drum." Bob looks down at the ground and shuffles his weight.

The next time Bob looks up, it's winter and they're doing Taste of Chaos with The Used. Bert, Quinn, and Jepha force Bob to come back to their bus on the first night, drink beer and shoot the shit, just the four of them. It's okay, but it's different. It surprises Bob when he realizes that it's not as much fun anymore.

Bob gets tired of the jokes about him abandoning ship pretty early on, and he spends the night counting down the minutes until he can go back to his bus. No one says anything about Branden, but they don't have to. Bob can tell that things have gotten worse. Bert and Quinn are doing their weird little hivemind thing and Jepha's leg won't stop jiggling up and down.

Bob's got to concentrate on his own band though.

Brian's on the tour, scheduling interviews for every spare moment. Bob doesn't complain too much because he's the new guy, but it's fucking exhausting and the rest of the guys are getting worn down too. They're practicing in their trailer one afternoon when Brian comes in and asks, "A reporter just called and wants to do an interview. Whose turn is it?"

"Fuck," Ray yells. "Seriously, Schechter, are you out of your fucking mind?"

Bob starts and then steps back against the wall. He's only heard Toro yell once before, in Europe, and it's actually pretty fucking scary. Gerard steps up to Ray and puts his hand on his shoulder.

Gerard clears his throat and says, "What Ray's trying to say, Brian, is that we're all a little tired and these interviews are kind of exhausting. Do you think maybe you can give us a few days off, let us hang out and relax?"

Brian nods wordlessly. They're in Ohio and have the night off, and somehow Frank convinces Brian that they should all go to the bar down the street from the hotel. Branden passes, and Gerard and Bert stay behind to do whatever it is they do (Bob seriously has no inclination to ever find out), but the rest of them go.

Bob's standing at the bar, waiting for the bartender, when a hand clamps down on his ass. Bob reaches behind him and knocks Jepha's hand off without saying anything.

Jepha leans against the bar. "Bobert."

"Jepharee."

The girl on the other side of Bob snorts but looks away when Bob glances at her. Just then, the bartender comes over and asks, "What can I get you?"

Bob orders a beer and the guy nods and walks away without saying anything to the girl.

"Holy shit," Jepha crows. "That dude totally ignored that girl in favor of you."

Bob glances at Jepha and then at the girl. She looks up at Bob disgustedly and says, "I've never been passed over for a dude before."

"Sorry." Bob shrugs.

"Whatever. When he comes back, do you think you can order me a Miller Lite?"

Bob nods and, when the guy does come back, he orders two beers for her and doesn't let her pay. She tilts her beers in thanks before walking away. Jepha's still laughing.

"Oh my god, wait till I tell Quinn about this. Bob, you're so hot that bartenders are skipping girls for you."

"Fuck off." Bob takes a drink from his beer.

Jepha leans into his side. "Seriously, Bob, what do you think about heading back to the hotel early?"

"Are you joking?"

"No."

Bob squints at Jepha's face and realizes that he's perfectly serious. Bob's not sure if he's insulted or amused but he does know he's not really looking to go anywhere near that road. "Not a good idea."

Jepha shrugs and picks up his drink. "Okay. Oh, hey, Frank and Quinn are starting a new game of darts, I'm gonna go get in on that."

Jepha wanders off and Bob watches him go. He shakes his head and wonders how Jepha can be so intuitive and so oblivious at the same time. He takes another sip from his drink and looks around the bar. Jepha, Quinn, and Frank are playing darts in the corner while Ray, Matt and Mikey are splitting a pitcher at a booth. The only person missing is Brian and Bob finally sees him in the corner, near the edge of the bar. He makes his way over and sits on the stool next to Brian.

"Hey," Brian nods.

Bob rests his elbows on the bar. "Schechter."

Neither one of them says anything for a few minutes and Bob's drifting a little, thinking about a new beat that he's been messing around with and wondering if he'll have time to do laundry the next day, when Brian clears his throat.

"Look, man, don't take this the wrong way but you and Jepha aren't picking up again, are you?"

"No."

"Good."

"Would it matter if I did?"

Brian stares ahead as he says, "Just needed to know what to expect."

"What?"

"Nothing personal, man, but you weren't much fun to be around last year when that all went down."

"What the fuck?" Bob spits out.

"Shit." Brian slaps his palm against the bar and looks over at Bob. "I didn't mean it like that. I just don't want to see you get hurt again."

Bob doesn't know what to say to that.

"Are we cool?" Brian sounds worried.

Bob cracks a smile and nudges Brian in the side before he replies, "Yeah, Princess, we're cool."

"Motherfucker. For that, you owe me a cigarette." Brian smirks and Bob curses as he fishes his pack out of his pocket.

"You're buying me a new pack tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah."

 

* * *

 

They shoot the video for "The Ghost of You" in Los Angeles. When they arrive on set, the Legion rep corners them and starts talking about the building they're filming in. He's slow to get to the point, and Bob keeps biting his lip and ducking his head to hide his grin while Brian feigns interest.

After five minutes, they're up to 1950.

"I've got all the photos upstairs in my office if you want to see them," the man says, barely taking a breath.

Brian momentarily looks horrified, and Bob muffles his laugh behind a sudden fit of coughing.

"You know," Brian says. "That would be great, but we've got to get inside." He motions over his shoulder to one of the film crews. "But I think it would be great if we could get this on film."

"Oh! Sure, sure!" The man shifts his attention away from Brian and launches into another full scale attack while Brian and Bob move away as quickly as possible.

Once they're inside, Bob meets up with Ray and they compare their costumes while they change in the back room. "I wonder what our rank is," Ray says, looking at the bars on his uniform.

"I don't know." Bob sniffs. "I smell like a moth ball, though. Do you smell like a moth ball?"

Ray lifts his forearm up to his nose and sniffs. Bob smirks when he wrinkles his nose. "Better than Gee though, right?"

"We should get moth balls for the bus," Bob says, zipping his pants up. Ray nods, tugging at the sleeves of his jacket.

When they walk back out to the main room, Frank is laughing and pulling his pants up past his waist, flapping the leftover material around his ankles like flippers.

"My pants are too long," he says, stating the obvious.

Bob watches while one of the women from hair and make up comes over to eye Ray's hair speculatively. She asks, "Would you consider letting me cut it?"

Ray squawks and Gerard steps up. "I'll cut mine," he volunteers.

Everyone looks at Gerard in surprise and he shrugs. "Why not? I think it's really important that we're true to the time period."

Bob nods in agreement and Ray nods just to get the lady's attention off him. They make quick work of Gerard's hair, the lank ends falling on the ground around his feet until it's all one length above his ears. They move onto Mikey and Frank next and Bob laughs at their discomfort while he rubs his hand over his head. He always knew there was something to be said for shaving his head. The lady comes over to Bob last and shakes her head.

"What?" Bob asks.

She cups his chin in her hands. She's got long, manicured nails and Bob can feel them scrape against his throat while she twists his face left then right. He ignores the urge to pull back from her while she narrows her eyes at him. "No facial hair," she finally says.

Bob looks at Ray who shrugs.

She turns her back to them, picks something off the table, and then turns back around, handing Bob an electric razor. Bob blinks at it and scratches his chin.

"Do you, ah, have, like, a mirror?" Bob asks. Her mouth is already full of bobby pins, so she just shakes her head and waves him away.

Bob stands in the hall and runs it over his cheeks, getting everything but his upper lip. Every time he tries to do it without a mirror, he just winds up cutting himself. He wanders around for a few minutes looking for an open mirror and eventually runs into Brian.

"I have to shave," he says, holding up the electric razor. Bob scratches his chin again and scowls. "I can't find a mirror and this isn't even my own razor."

"Quit your bitchin', Bryar, and sit down."

Bob scowls harder and Brian shoves him down onto a stool at the back of the room. Bob gets comfortable and hooks his arms over top of the helmet balanced on his knees.

Brian flashes him a crooked grin and flips the electric razor on. "Ready, Princess?"

Bob grins. "I don't know, are you?"

One of the guys documenting the filming zooms in on Bob's face. The razor is making a loud buzzing sound and it tickles against his skin. Bob forces himself to sit perfectly still and stares ahead.

"It's a big moment here," Bob says. He lets Brian tip his face to the left. "I've always had some sort of beard-ish thing going on. Gerard cut his hair, so I'll shave."

Brian moves the razor over Bob's jaw and then makes a face at him, puffing his upper lip out with air. Bob watches at him, and does the same. The razor buzzes underneath his nose and something in Bob's stomach flutters.

It's a hot, slick feeling that rolls in a wave up his chest, the backs of his arms, his neck, and then reverses and rolls just as quickly down the back of his knees. He sucks some air in and then forces himself to exhale.

Bob flicks his gaze over Brian's face to see if he's noticed that Bob is quietly freaking out. It doesn't look like he has, and Bob makes an effort to ignore the way his stomach is twisting. It's almost painful in counterpart to the soft pads of Brian's fingers against Bob's cheek.

"Almost finished," Brian mumbles. Bob blinks and swallows. It sounds loud in his ears. "There. All done."

Brian puts the razor down and Bob scrambles to get off the stool. "Thanks! Gotta go!"

"What about my tip?" Brian yells after him. Bob doesn't reply and the next thing he knows, there's a weight on his back and Brian's feet scrabbling against his legs.

"Fucker!" Bob yells as he spins around and tries to shake Brian off.

"I want my two dollars!" Brian tries to push himself up, and his arms lock around Bob's throat.

"Oh, that's it." Bob steps backward until he feels Brian slam into the wall. Brian exhales heavily into Bob's ear. Bob's gut twists again and his breath gets shallow. Things are not going to turn out well if this keeps up, Bob thinks, not with all the video guys around them. He steps away from the wall quickly and Brian slides down and off.

"Add it to my tab," Bob says as he beats a path outside. Mikey's talking to the one of the video guys and Bob decides to see if he needs any help.

Bob and Ray are sharing a room that night at the hotel. Ray calls dibs on the first shower and is in there for a good thirty minutes. It's late by the time Bob gets done with his shower. Ray is sprawled across one of the beds, flipping channels.

Bob's been thinking about his reaction to Brian all day, trying to figure out if it was Brian or being touched like that for the first time in a long time that caused it. He opens his mouth to ask Ray for his opinion but Bob doesn't know how to actually say he's possibly developing a crush on their manager.

Ray looks over while Bob's mouth is still hanging open and asks, "What's going on, man?"

Bob shuts his mouth with a click and replies, "Nothing. It's just… I'm trying to figure something out but it's not important."

"You sure?"

Ray's face is open and Bob tries hard to think of how to ask what he wants to know. Instead he answers, "Yeah, I'm sure. Go to bed."

Ray shrugs and pulls the covers up over his chest and rolls to the side. "'Night."

"'Night."

 

* * *

 

Bert's outside the venue with a megaphone, screaming.

They hear it. Everyone does.

They have to play though it though. The air is stiflingly hot and Bob's shirt is sticking to his back, between his shoulder blades. It's sweat, dirt and three days worth of grime. In between songs, he pours an entire bottle of water down his back. By the time he's snatched up his sticks again, the water is seeping through his pants. Everything feels sweaty, even his toes squelch inside his shoes. For the first time since he started drumming again, Bob is counting down the seconds until the set is over.

It has nothing to do with the band. At least not with this band, but Bob can't think about that now.

Instead, he keeps time with Mikey, focuses on the beat and not the rage that's building in the middle of his chest. There's no ignoring it completely though. They're all feeling it. Gerard is screaming into microphone, and Frank is whipping himself around the stage like a hurricane. Even the easy line of Ray's back seems unusually rigid.

When they finish the set, Bob stalks off the stage and catches Frank by the arm. Frankie's already ranting: "Fucking cuntrag sonofabitch—"

"Frankie, stop," Bob jerks his bicep rides it out when Frank tries throwing him off. Frank turns on Bob, furious. "Stop," Bob repeats.

They're all furious and Brian has already ushered Gerard back to the bus.

"The fuck is his problem?" Frank shouts.

Bob shakes his head, letting Frank's arm go. He's still keeping a close eye on the door though. "Frank, I dunno." Bob sighs. "It's. He's. Bert."

"He's an asshole, that's what he is," says Ray, his voice goes up an octave higher and cracks slightly.

"Who fucking does that?" Mikey wants to know. He sounds confused.

It takes a while, but eventually they all make their way out to the bus. When they walk into the front lounge, Brian steps out from the back. Mikey pushes past him to see Gerard and no one bothers to stop him. Brian motions to the door and Bob nods.

"Watch Frank?" Bob says to Ray quietly, stepping around him.

Bob follows Brian outside and the hydraulic door hisses shut behind them. Brian fishes out a pack of cigarettes and offers one to Bob. They both light up and smoke quietly for a few minutes. Bob is the first one to break the silence. "Gerard okay?"

Brian nods his head and scuffs his shoe against the pavement. "Yeah, I think so. Seems okay, anyway."

Bob raises his eyebrows. "That doesn't always mean anything."

Brian exhales, blowing out a long line of smoke. "I know. Fucking tell me about it."

Bob nods too, mulling it over. "I'm going to talk to Jeph," he says, eventually.

Brian lifts his head to look at him. "Really?"

"Yeah, this shit? It's not cool. And whatever the fuck Bert's problem with Gerard is, it's Bert's and they'd better fucking deal."

"You up for that?"

Bob throws his cigarette onto the ground and stomps it out with the toe of his boot. "You know what I'm not up for? I'm not up for this fucking band falling apart because of Bert fucking McCracken."

By the time Bob makes his way over to The Used's bus, the knot in the middle of his chest is back. A few of the techs wave and Bob nods in their general direction. He pounds on the bus door with his fist and a minute later, Quinn is opening the door.

"Bob," Quinn says.

Bob nods his head curtly. "Quinn."

"I figured they'd send Brian," Jepha says from behind Quinn. He's holding a mug of tea in his hand and he steps back when Bob pushes his way onto the bus.

"No one 'sent' me," Bob replies once he's standing in the bus lounge.

Quinn has disappeared into the back, and Bob doesn't comment.

"Look, we both know why I'm here," Bob says. Jepha sighs. He's wearing a loose pair of cargo shorts and his skinny legs make him look young. Suddenly it feels like the longest year of Bob's life was only five minutes ago. "I'm not here to talk about who's right, Bert or Gerard. Honestly, I don't fucking care. Bert's got a problem with Gerard, fine. But he was totally out of line today."

"I know," Jepha agrees and Bob narrows his eyes. Jepha shrugs.

"So you'd better get him under fucking control," Bob grinds out.

Jepha cocks a lazy smile. "I said you were right, Bobby. What else do you want from me? We both know it's just Bert being Bert. We can't watch him 24-7."

"Maybe you should."

"Bob, is this even about Bert and Gerard anymore? Because from where I'm standing—"

"Don't. Don't you fucking even go there with me right now. This isn't about you and me," Bob shouts. "This is about your fucking lead singer on a goddamn megaphone during our set."

There's a quiet cough from the entry way to the bunks, and both Bob and Jepha turn to look. Bert is standing there, black-eyed and hair hanging limp around his face. Quinn is hovering behind him and Bob snaps his eyes back to Jepha.

He points one arm towards Bert and says, "Get him under control."

"Or what?" Jepha challenges.

"Or I will." Bob stares at Jepha, and doesn't flinch.

"Go on, Bob. You go take care of your band, I'll take care of mine." It's a peace offering of sorts, and Bob takes it with a jerky nod.

Bob runs into Frank as he's heading back to My Chem's bus. Frank takes one look at Bob's face and before Bob can reassure him that he's fine, Frank climbs up Bob and makes himself comfortable on Bob's shoulders.

"Hey Bob," Frank says.

"What's up, Frankie?" Bob wraps his arms around Frank's shins and exhales.

"I heard they're serving vegan dogs in the mess. Want to go get some?"

"Not at fucking all." Bob has no issue with vegans but vegan hotdogs nauseate him and Frank knows it.

"Too bad!" Frank digs his heels in a little and wiggles his body in the direction of the mess tent.

"Don't ash on me," Bob grumbles as he starts toward the mess. He'll never admit it to Frank but Bob's grateful for the distraction.

Bert's tantrum doesn't set the tone for the rest of the tour, thankfully, and Warped turns out to be pretty awesome. Bob hops from band to band, hanging out with whoever has cold water and shade which usually turns out to be Fall Out Boy. He winds up spending a lot of time with them, comparing scene stories and favorite places in Chicago. Bob can't remember ever hearing about them, he knew about Arma Angelus and Pete of course, but he must have left Chicago before Fall Out Boy started getting big.

Brian rides along for the first half of Warped. Every time Bob convinces himself that what happened at the 'Ghost of You' shoot was a just a freak thing, Brian mutters a joke in Bob's ear or rolls his eyes at Mikey, and Bob's stomach starts flipping all over again.

 

* * *

 

Looking back, Bob can't believe he missed the signs. He should have known something wasn't right with Brian, should have asked him why he kept showing up late to meetings and disappearing into bathrooms. Between touring and starting work on the new album, Bob lost track of Brian.

In Bob's defense, they all lost track of Brian.

No one realizes how bad things are until Brian disappears for four days. By the time his assistant calls the band to see if they know anything, it's been almost a full day. They spend the next two calling hospitals, the cops and anyone who has ever known Brian.

Hands down, it's the worst three days of Bob's life.

On the fourth morning, Brian shows up on Gerard's doorstep. Gerard puts Brian to bed and calls the rest of them. They make it to his apartment in Queens within the hour. When Bob tries to go back to the guest room to see him, Gerard just shakes his head and steers Bob into the kitchen.

Frank, Mikey, Ray, and Gerard sit at Gerard's kitchen table while Bob leans against the wall. They're trying to find a place for Brian, they need a plan, something to present to him, something to fucking say. For a brief second, Bob wonders when someone who knows what to do is going to come in and tell them how to take care of this.

That's when he realizes the person who would normally do that is coming off a three-day bender.

Bob doesn't really contribute much to the conversation, just nods mutely whenever anyone comes up with an idea.

"Gerard, can you call your shrink? Maybe she knows a place," Ray suggests.

Gerard shrugs. "Yeah, of course I can. I don't know, though. Recovery's different for everyone and I don't know if she'd be able to help him."

"Well, he fucking needs something. This shit can't continue." Frank whispers, harshly.

Bob thumps his head against the wall. "Yeah, we all fucking know that, Frankie."

Everyone turns around and looks at Bob. He stares back at them until Mikey asks, "You honestly didn't know it was this bad?"

There's something in his voice, a mixture of expectation and disbelief, which is fair. Bob's known Brian longer than any of the others.

Fuck.

"Nope. I didn't see shit," Bob pushes himself off the wall and heads toward the bedroom. "Fuck this."

He knocks on the door and waits to hear Brian's muffled "Come in."

The shades are almost completely closed, but there's a little sliver of sunshine at the foot of the bed. Brian is sprawled on his back, arm covering his eyes, the covers kicked off the bed.

Bob shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the painting on the wall. Bob can't think of a single fucking thing to say. It's stupid, he's never had a problem talking to Brian but right now he's got fucking nothing.

Still, he'd rather be here than in the kitchen, trying to make decisions for Brian like he's a damn toddler and not an addict.

Brian's voice is quiet when he finally speaks. "Well. Go ahead, yell at me."

"I'm not going to yell at you." Bob rolls his head from side to side.

"Because I'm too fragile?" Brian sneers.

"No, asshole. I'm not going to yell because it's not going to solve anything." Bob sighs.

Brian shakes his head under his arm, his body rocking back and forth.

Bob decides to ask the one thing that no one has really brought up because they're afraid of the answer. "Look, do you want to quit?"

Brian doesn't reply and Bob sighs. He pulls his hands out of his pockets before he sits down on the bed. Brian doesn't acknowledge him and Bob pulls at the lint on the bedspread while he waits for Brian to answer. After a few minutes, there's still nothing and Bob is getting less worried and more pissed.

"You know you have to go out there," he says.

Brian raises his arm from his face, fucking finally, and looks straight at Bob. "Face the music?" He asks.

"Fuck that. Face your life, make your own decisions like a fucking adult."

Brian nods slowly.

"It's not like you haven't been on the other side of that table," Bob says, softer than he intends.

"Fuck, you guys are probably going to say the exact same shit that I've said before."

"Probably." Bob stands up and heads to the door. "But I think maybe you could stand to hear it again."

He heads out into the hall and when he gets to the entranceway to the kitchen, Bob looks back down the hall. Brian is leaning against the doorjamb. He raises his eyebrows at Bob before he stands up straight and starts down the hall.

 

* * *

 

Two days after they drop Brian off at the rehab center, Bob's doorbell rings. When he opens the door, Brian's on the other side, pale and haggard-looking. Bob steps back from the door and lets Brian walk through. He shuts the door before he asks, "Did you get out early for good behavior?"

"It sucked, Bob. I couldn't deal, it was a lot of sitting around and talking about my feelings and shit." Brian collapses on the couch. "They made us hold hands and do an Appreciative Inquiry Circle."

Bob snorts and shakes his head. That does sound pretty awful but that's not the point. "You know this shit will never work if you don't mean it."

"Well, it wasn't going to work at that place anyway." Brian scratches the side of his face. His hand is shaking pretty bad and it takes a few tries.

Bob sits down in the chair across from Brian's chair and rests his elbows on his knees. "What do you want to do now?"

"I want to finish getting clean. I want to get this shit out of my system without having to hug it out."

"All right." Bob moves across the room and grabs the blanket off the back of the couch. "Lie down." Brian stares at him, confused, until Bob motions for him to lie down. Once he's down, Bob throws the blanket over Brian and says, "Get some sleep."

While Brian sleeps, Bob calls the rest of the guys and updates them. In the middle of the conversation, Frank mentions that Jepha knows a guy in Utah who does drug and alcohol addiction counseling.

"I'll call Jepha and get his number," Frank volunteers.

"I can call him," Bob protests. "We can talk civilly, in case you didn't notice."

"Bob, you've got Brian passed out on your couch, still detoxing," Frank snaps. "For fuck's sake, let me just call him and save you from having to deal with that on top of everything else."

"Fine, whatever," Bob bites out. They hang up almost immediately after and Bob sits in the living room, reading a magazine and keeping an eye on Brian while he waits for Frank to call back. Brian tosses and turns a bit but he stays asleep until Bob's phone rings an hour later. The caller ID says it's Frank.

"Well?" Bob asks.

"Jepha gave me the guy's number and I called him," Frank replies. "He says if we can get Brian on the plane out there, then he can do the rest. I made the flight arrangements, he's got a direct flight that leaves at seven tonight."

"Thanks, Frankie." Bob hangs up and looks at Brian who's been staring at him throughout the phone call. "Frank found a guy through Jepha. He says it should be a little more up your alley."

"Frank called Jepha?" Brian asks.

"We're leaving for the airport in three hours. Do you want to shower?" Bob puts an end to that line of conversation quickly.

When they pack up and go west to finish writing the album, Brian's still in rehab.

 

* * *

 

Bob's sitting on the back lawn, wrapping a blade of grass around his finger and staring at the moon, when he hears,

"I must have been a serial killer in a past life to deserve this kind of karma."

He twists his head around and Brian's standing on the patio, shaking his head slowly. Bob pushes himself up, wipes the dirt off his pants, and heads over to the patio. "You're out," he says, stupidly.

"I am out." Brian extends his arms out wide. "I am out and better than ever."

"I wouldn't go that far." Bob laughs and pulls Brian in for a hug.

After Bob steps back, Brian looks at him critically for a few seconds and asks, "Please tell me you're doing okay, Bryar. I'm okay with Gerard and Frank being all over the place but I don't think I could handle it if you and Ray were freaking out."

Bob nods, "I'm doing as good as I can. How's Mikey?"

"That poor fucking kid," Brian sighs and shakes his head. "He sounds better every time we talk, but I think it's going to be awhile before he's ready to come back."

It's nothing that Bob hasn't heard already, but that doesn't mean he's any less disappointed. Everything's different without Mikey.

 

* * *

 

They finish writing the album at three in the afternoon on a Wednesday. Mikey still has to look it all over, but they're pretty much done and they know it. Gerard calls Mikey first then Brian while Frank and Bob line up all the bags in the front hall and Ray packs up the gear.

"You gonna miss this place?" Frank huffs as they go upstairs.

"Nope." And it's true. Bob's proud of what they've written, he thinks it has the potential to be a great fucking album, but if he never went through all this shit again, that would be okay with him.

Frank slides one of Gerard's bags down the stairs and they watch in silence as it hits the floor and topples over. Frank holds his hand up for a high-five and Bob obliges before they do one last sweep of the bedrooms.

Frank asks, "So, you're staying with Patrick?"

"Yeah. He says he's got a spare bedroom. This way, I don't have to deal with signing a bunch of paperwork."

"Whatever, you're just trying to start your own little Chicago West commune. Don't deny it."

"I'm not denying that Chicago is better than Jersey," Bob replies.

"In your dreams."

Before Frank can think of a comeback, Gerard sticks his head out of the kitchen and yells that that the car is there.

Bob and all his shit are moved into Patrick's guest room by dinnertime. That night, they're watching The Daily Show when Patrick yawns and looks at the clock. He grins embarrassedly and says, "Not as young as I used to be."

Bob throws his head back and laughs for what feels like the first time in months. "Stump, you're 22. Jesus Christ, if you're old, I'm fucking ancient."

It's nice hanging out with Patrick again. He's the not the cleanest of people, but he's always willing to pick up his shit when Bob asks him. They have a good time hanging out and watching TV. The most important thing is that he's not in Bob's band and if Bob doesn't want to talk about recording, Patrick's more than willing to drop it.

Bob comes home from the studio one evening and there's a sign on the door that says Happy Camp. He stares at the sign for a few minutes, trying to figure out what it means, before he shakes his head and goes inside.

Patrick's sprawled on the couch, his computer on his lap. He looks up when Bob walks into the living room and says, "Hey."

"What's with the sign?" Bob points over his shoulder at the door while he toes his shoes off.

Patrick laughs. "Joe was over here today. He started rambling some shit about how awesome our apartment was and how he got happy whenever he walked through the door. Then he decided to make the sign. You're lucky Pete wasn't here, it would have turned into a real arts and craft project."

Bob raises his eyebrows and falls onto the chair. He tips his head against the cushion and closes his eyes. He can hear Patrick tapping on his computer again and they stay like that for a few minutes, Bob decompressing while Patrick hums under his breath.

Eventually Bob forces himself to open his eyes and sit up. "I think Brian's coming over tonight to hang out. Is that cool?"

"Yeah, that's totally cool." Patrick looks up and grins. "I actually owe him a CD."

Bob stands up and moves toward the bathroom. "I'm going to go shower. If the doorbell rings, answer it."

Patrick agrees absently and Bob hopes Patrick will actually hear the doorbell if Brian shows up early.

Standing in the bathroom, Bob can hear two voices from the living room. When he walks into the living room, Patrick and Brian are sitting on the couch while Patrick tells Brian about the latest issues with Panic! and their rotating line-up of bass players.

Brian nods sympathetically and says, "Hope it all works out for them."

"I think it will. They're good kids and Pete's pretty dedicated to making it happen for them." Patrick looks up at Bob. "All clean?"

"Yep." Bob flops down on the loveseat and the three of them hang out in the living room, talking while the TV's on low.

Somehow, they start talking about embarrassing tour stories. Brian glances at Bob before he looks at Patrick and asks, "So, did Bob ever tell you about the time he tried to climb up the side of a bus and split his pants open?"

"No." Patrick laughs and leans forward.

Bob groans and stands up. "I hate you so fucking much, Schechter."

"Whatever, get me another Diet Coke."

"Assface," Bob mutters as he grabs Brian's empty cup.

"Your mom." Brian turns his attention back to Patrick. "No seriously, Bobby here was trying to get his porn back from Bert when he…"

Bob's in the kitchen when Brian delivers the punch line, and he just rolls his eyes and shakes his head as Brian and Patrick laugh.

About an hour later, Brian stands up and rubs his hands against his jeans. "As much fun as it's been, I should probably go."

Bob stands up too. "I'll walk you out."

"Later." Patrick waves.

When they get to the door, Bob steps into the hallway and closes the door behind them. "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah."

Bob leans against the doorframe and doesn't say anything. He's picked up on a few things about Brian over the years and one of those is that sometimes he needs to be waited out.

Brian points to the sign on the door. "What's up with that?"

"I don't really know. It was here when I got home this afternoon. Patrick says Joe made it today when he was high."

Brian snorts and looks up and down the hallway before he says, "Seriously, Bob, I'm fine. I just didn't feel like hanging out by myself tonight. I'm not going to drink or anything, just trying to make sure that my ass doesn't form an indentation in the couch."

"All right."

"Thanks." Brian walks backwards down the hall to the elevator. "See you tomorrow."

When Bob lets himself back into the apartment, Patrick is in the kitchen, standing in front of the fridge, door wide open.

Bob channels his mom and asks, "You trying to cool off the neighborhood?"

Patrick jumps a little but keeps the door open as he holds his arm up behind him and flicks Bob off. He pulls out the orange juice and then grabs a cup from the drainer. "You want some?"

Bob shakes his head and leans against the counter. There's one banana in the fruit bowl and Bob feels kind of bad for it, the last of a bunch. He grabs it and starts peeling it. He's just popped a chunk of it into this mouth when Patrick clears his throat and says, "So, you've got a thing for Brian?"

It turns out banana can get stuck in a person's throat really easily. As Bob's coughing up bits of it, he decides that he could have lived without knowing that tidbit. By the time Bob catches his breath, Patrick's put his cup down on the counter and is bent over laughing.

"Fuck you," Bob gasps. He grabs a paper towel and wipes his mouth. "I don't have a thing for Brian."

Patrick stops laughing and looks up at him. "Really? Because sometimes it seems like you might."

Bob plays with the banana peel, ripping tiny banana threads off and making a pile before he replies, "I don't know."

"You don't know what?"

"I had a little crush on him after Jepha and I broke up. I just figured it was some kind of rebound thing."

"You and Jepha broke up, like, two years ago," Patrick says.

Bob nods. "Yeah."

"You've dated other people since then, right? Please tell me you've had sex since you joined My Chem." Patrick sounds horrified.

"Yes, I've had sex, doucheface." Bob throws his wadded-up paper towel at Patrick's head. Patrick makes a face as he bats it aside. "And yeah, I've dated a few people."

"So, you're definitely not on the rebound right now." Patrick stares at Bob. "Do you still have a thing for Brian?"

"Maybe," Bob shrugs. It's become one of those things that's gone on for so long that Bob's almost learned how to live with it. He doesn't get all fluttery around Brian or anything like that, he just likes him in the way where Bob thinks that making out could be really good.

"Bryar, you have, like, the shittiest timing ever. He just got out of rehab, Mikey's barely holding it together, and you're in the middle of recording your first studio album."

"Thanks for recapping the last six months, Patrick. It's not like I didn't live through them the first time around," Bob snaps. "It's never really a good time, though, you know?"

Patrick nods in agreement and they stand quietly in the kitchen. Eventually Bob looks at the clock on the microwave and says, "I've got an early call tomorrow. I should go to bed."

"Yeah, me too." Patrick turns off the light in the kitchen as they walk out.

 

* * *

 

Everyone asks Bob about it later, asks him if he remembers the VMAs and the trip afterwards to the hospital. The short answer, the one he gives reporters and fans, is "no".

The long answer is that he remembers bits and pieces. He remembers switching out ice packs for the performance and cursing Gerard's decision to wear wool uniforms at the end of August. He remembers lying on the couch on the bus and people staring down at him, asking questions he couldn't understand.

The last thing he really remembers though is the doctor's voice, low and steady, as he told Bob that if Bob left the hospital, he would probably die. Bob thinks he might remember that for the rest of his life.

Bob spends most of the time in the hospital sleeping. The nurses wake him up every six hours and Brian's there every time Bob opens his eyes. The other guys are there at different times, but Brian's always on the couch in the corner, working on his computer or reading. He never says anything to Bob, just stares at him until Bob drifts back into unconsciousness.

By Saturday night, Bob's feeling human again and one of the night nurses tells him the doctors are thinking about discharging him tomorrow. He grins when she tells him this and Brian snorts in the corner.

"Fuck off, Schechter."

"Make me," Brian replies as he stands up from the couch.

"Really, that's really the best comeback you can think of? I almost fucking died," Bob yawns, "and I can think of at least three better comebacks than 'make me.'"

"Good for you." Brian sits in the chair next to Bob's bed and props his feet up on the bed. "Here's an idea: why don't you lie quietly in bed?"

"All I've done is sleep. I'm tired of it," Bob grumbles as his eyes close.

When he wakes up next, there's sunlight streaming into the room and Gerard is sitting in the chair, reading the newspaper and humming while his fingers tap out a steady beat on his coffee cup.

"Where's Brian?" Bob croaks.

Gerard's head pops up, his eyes big. "Oh hey, you're up. He went outside to smoke. How are you feeling? Do you want some ice chips or something? I'm just going to warn you now that this coffee is complete shit. Seriously, avoid at all costs."

"Um, I'll take some ice chips."

Gerard flutters around the room, pouring chips into a cup and chattering the whole time. Bob's not really paying much attention when he hears Gerard say, "Not as hardcore as Brian though, that guy never left here."

"Wait, what?"

"Brian hasn't left the hospital since you were admitted." Gerard puts the cup on the table tray and swings it until it's in front of Bob. "Voila!"

Bob sucks a couple of ice chips into his mouth, trying to pull out exactly what Gerard means.

"You know," Gerard says thoughtfully, "if you want to be with Brian, then you should go for it."

"What are you talking about?" Bob's heartbeat picks up and he hopes like fuck that the nurses aren't monitoring him right now because he does not want to explain this.

"I'm just saying me, Frank, Mikey, and Ray love you like a brother, but we still left here every once in a while to eat and take naps. I even showered," Gerard adds proudly.

"That doesn't mean anything," Bob protests.

"Maybe if you were, like, dead inside and had no potential to love because all that remained of your heart was a tiny piece of dried-up tissue, it might not mean anything. But that's not you two, and don't try to pretend otherwise."

Brian comes back into the room then before Bob can say anything else. He nods stiffly at Brian who makes a questioning face in return. Before Brian can ask anything, Gerard, who's been watching this whole interaction, jumps in.

"You know," Gerard sniffs, "this coffee is -"

Bob groans and throws his head back against the pillow. He and Brian interrupt in unison. "The worst you've ever had, we know."

Gerard looks shocked and blinks at them. "Well it is. Even worse than that time ..."

"Hey, will you look at the time?" Brian steers Gerard toward the door by the elbow. "They'll be releasing him soon and I think I've got it all taken care of. How about you head home and I'll call you later?"

When Brian comes back into the room, Bob shoots him a relieved smile. Brian ducks his head and thumbs the side of his throat. When he looks back up at Bob, the tips of his ears are glowing red. Bob clears his throat.

"So. Gee talks a lot," Bob says finally.

"Yeah. I thought I was going to have to kill the motherfucker at one point just to shut him up about the goddamn coffee. I didn't but only because we're already in a hospital and they'd probably just resuscitate him."

Bob's smile feels too tight on his face, so he drops it quickly. "Yeah," Bob lets out an uncomfortable chuckle and then forges ahead anyway. "He was talking about you, actually. Earlier. When you were outside."

Bob clears his throat again and stares at the slow slide of the IV drip. His hand, where the needle has been inserted under the skin, is throbbing. Bob twists his fingers against the blankets, trying to work the burn out. Instead it flares sharply and Bob winces and jerks his hand still. Brian stops his pacing and turns to face Bob. He stares at Bob for a full minute before he manages a stilted, "He was, was he?"

Bob nods slowly. "Yep."

"Are you planning on telling me what he was talking about?" Brian sounds stiff and pissy, and Bob shrugs.

"He just mentioned that you, ah, never really went home much. Or, you know. At all." Bob looks Brian expectantly.

He looks baffled. "Of course I didn't fucking go home. The hell? You could have fucking died."

Bob rolls his eyes but before he can say anything, the nurse walks in. She's chipper and asks Bob, "How are we doing this morning?"

Bob automatically scowls and doesn't bother answering but she doesn't notice. He watches Brian as the nurse pulls his chart open and flips though the pages, scribbling down a few notes. "You should be discharged shortly," she says smoothly on her way out the door. "Just as soon as the doctor gets here do to his rounds."

They both watch her leave the room and, when it's just the two of them again, Bob throws his head back against his pillow. "Fuck. I just want to get out of here. I'm so fucking sick of this."

"I know. Me too."

Brian looks exhausted and his hair is sticking flatly against the side of his head. His skin looks yellow under the fluorescent lights.

Bob clears his throat. "You didn't have to stick around." He falters when Brian looks at him. "That's all I was saying."

"And what if I wanted to?" Brian's face is carefully neutral. It's one of the rare times that Bob can't read him at all. He hopes to fuck they're both talking about the same thing.

"That would be," Bob hesitates and finishes slowly, "Okay." When he repeats himself, it sounds firmer, more sure. "Yeah, that would be okay."

"Okay," Brian nods. "Good. Because I did. Want to. Stick around." Brian's neck and ears go red again and he keeps clearing his throat like he's developed a nervous tick.

Bob smiles and brushes the back of his hand across his mouth, hiding his grin. "Schechter, did we just have a moment?"

"Fuck you," Brian says, grinning.

It takes another hour and forty minutes before the doctor finally sees Bob. He stands at the end of Bob's bed and gives him a list of instructions that Bob isn't going to remember five minutes after the doctor leaves the room. As they're packing, Bob gets more and more tense.

It doesn't help that Brian keeps fussing around, opening doors and easing Bob into the goddamn car like he's an invalid. When Brian tries handing Bob the seatbelt latch, Bob snaps. "Christ, would you fuck off?"

"Jesus, take it easy," Brian says, immediately.

"Well," Bob snits.

Brian doesn't answer and after a few minutes of silence Bob starts to feel like a shit, but he's not exactly sure how to apologize.

The drive back to Brian's apartment doesn't take very long and Bob mostly dozes despite not feeling tired when they checked out of the hospital. Once the car pulls to a stop, Bob jerks his head upright and feels for a dribble of drool at the corner of his mouth. After Brian parks the car, Bob follows him inside.

The curtains are still drawn shut and even though it's the middle of the afternoon, it looks drab and grey. Brian steps across the room quickly, throwing magazines off the couch and sweeping the junk on the coffee table into a quick pile.

"Sorry about the mess," Brian says. "I didn't know for sure that you'd be getting out today."

Bob shrugs. It's not like the mess really matters or even begins to touch the disgusting that is Bob's everyday life on tour. He sinks down onto the couch and the exhaustion hits him like a sledgehammer. He ends up napping on the couch to the sounds of Brian messing around in the kitchen and something low on the television. When Bob wakes up, it's well after seven.

"You hungry?" Brian asks.

Bob nods his head and Brian gets up from the armchair and disappears back into the kitchen. When he comes out, he's balancing a sandwich on a plate on top of a glass of milk in one hand and a fresh ice pack in the other.

"I've been switching them out while you were sleeping," Brian says. He points to the limp ice pack wedged between the pillow and the cushion of the couch. There's a wet patch drying on the white pillowcase.

"Thanks. And sorry about earlier."

"Sure. It's okay."

For a few minutes, they both stare ahead at the television. They're watching a Japanese game show that kind of looks like people trying to fit themselves into Tetris shapes. Even though it's funny, the show makes Bob think about Jepha with a sad twinge. He chews the rest of his sandwich slowly and thinks about that; thinks about how sometimes, it feels like there is a Jepha-shaped imprint on him somewhere he can't reach, like an itch in the middle of his back he can't scratch.

Bob figures you never really leave anything permanently behind, that everyone leaves behind a scar you can't get out from under. It's taken Bob a long time to realize that, and even longer to figure out that it's okay.

After he's finished drinking his milk, he leans back on the sofa and presses the icepack to the side of his mouth. Brian is laughing at the television, and Bob smiles and turns his attention back to it.

Three days later, Bob corners Brian in the kitchen while they're waiting on the coffee to finish brewing. Brian is taking Bob to meet up with the rest of the band for a photo shoot, a shoot that Brian says is a shitty idea right now.

"It's not like we can cancel," Bob says reasonably. He reaches past Brian and pulls a mug down from the cupboard. The door slaps shut with a hollow, wooden sound and Brian won't answer him.

"Look," Bob says suddenly.

Brian crosses his arms over his chest. He looks like he's bracing himself for some argument when Bob leans in and brushes his lips over Brian's. Brian holds himself perfectly still, and for a split second, Bob wonders if he's just made a colossal mistake.

Brian's lips feel chapped and dry, and warm against Bob's. And then finally, after an eternity, Brian's mouth parts slightly and presses forward. Bob nuzzles the corner of Brian's lip softly and mumbles, "I've been meaning to say that for a while."

"It's funny because I've been meaning to say that same exact thing," Brian replies in a low voice.

Bob can feel Brian's breath coming quick and fast as they kiss. The coffee pot coughs and spits out the last few drops as Bob slides his hand down Brian's side to the front of his jeans. He cups Brian through the denim and squeezes. "So I want this," Bob says.

Brian's dick twitches against the weight of Bob's palm.

"And I'm guessing you want this too." Bob swallows tightly.

"But?" Brian cants his hips forward and Bob fights the urge to grind up against him.

"But we've been friends for a long time, and I don't want to fuck that up. And there's something else too. You said something to me once."

"Yeah?" Brian's mouth quirks up into a smile. "I'm a smart fucker like that."

Bob doesn't smile back. "When I was with Jeph, you said that if it fell apart, you'd have to fire me and I said I'd go willingly. You gotta know. If this falls apart..." Bob takes a deep breath and tugs at his lip ring with his teeth. "If this falls apart, if you and me, if we don't."

Bob stops, shakes his head and then says weakly, "I couldn't leave the band."

Brian looks at him seriously, and then nods. "I know."

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later, after Bob gets the all clear from his doctor, they fuck on Brian's couch because it's the closest thing to the door. It's messy and uncomfortable, Bob keeps hitting his elbow on the coffee table, but the only thing he can think while prepping Brian is finally.

"Slouch down a bit," Bob mumbles. He's already on his knees, shoving the coffee table back with one foot, and he grimaces at the scrape of the carpet against his leg.

"Are you okay?" Brian lifts his head up, craning to look at Bob as he slides his hips off the edge of the couch.

Bob nods and bends his head forward to concentrate on the movement of his fingers in Brian's ass. He strokes his thumb over Brian's perineum and watches the way Brian's balls twitch.

"Oh fuck," Brian exhales, dropping his head back against the cushions again. "Fuck, I don't care if you're all right or not. Just don't stop doing that."

Bob chuckles and flashes him a satisfied smile as Brian reaches down and strokes his own dick.

He looks good like this, Bob thinks. Brian's throat is flushed, and he's leaking precome against his fingers. The head of Brian's dick is shiny and Bob watches Brian's thumb slide over the crown. When he leans forward, he sucks the head of Brian's dick into his mouth.

"Oh fuck," Brian moans again. "Fuck, Bryar. That feels — that's —"

Bob hums and Brian must forget whatever he was trying to say because he goes tense underneath Bob's mouth, panting. Bob adds a third finger and Brian's legs fall further open.

"I want to fuck you," Bob says, pulling off.

Brian's laugh sounds broken and breathless but he's already shifting away. "Promises, promises."

Bob crawls up onto the couch, pushing his jogging pants down at the same time. The fabric catches on the bandage and Bob swears under his breath.

"How do you want to do this?" Brian waves one hand around, vaguely.

Bob smirks. "Well, Schechter, I know the nuns probably didn't teach you this at Catholic school but I was sort of thinking about putting my dick in your ass."

"Fuck you," Brian says automatically.

Bob snickers. He settles himself against the back of the couch, bracing his good leg against the coffee table for leverage. "Fuck you, 'fuck you'," he grumbles. "C'mere."

That's pretty much where it all falls apart. Any suave moves Bob may have once had are now non-existent. He manages to knock Brian in the nose with his elbow while Brian's trying to lower himself down onto Bob's lap. Surprised, Brian jerks away and kicks Bob's bad leg. For a few long seconds, Bob actually sees stars and the string of curses he lets out have nothing to do with being turned on.

Brian's laugh sounds nervous. "I don't think this is working."

"It's working," Bob huffs, tilting his hips forward.

Brian's breath catches and Bob grins, thrusting again. "I told you."

"Yeah, you're the man, Bob." Brian pants. He smirks, but the effect is ruined by the slightly dazed look on his face.

Bob digs his heel into the carpet and arches up as Brian grinds down.

"Princess," Bob thrusts pointedly. Brian's head rolls back and the line of his throat is exposed. Bob stares at it for a few seconds before he reaches up and wraps his fingers around it. He can feel Brian swallow against his palm as he pulls Brian forward to kiss him.

There's no real rhythm, and Bob's leg is throbbing by the time he finally comes. By all accounts, it's probably the worst sex of Bob's life, except it's Brian and, even taking into account the bad sex, Bob can't remember ever being happier.

They stay on the couch for a bit, trying to catch their breath, until Brian props himself up on his elbow and says, "You know, I've got a pretty sweet bed."

Bob kind of moves into Brian's apartment after that. Brian doesn't really say anything, just shows Bob where to put his toothbrush and clears some space in the closet. Bob tries telling the guys it makes sense since he gave up his apartment in New York a year ago and they have so much promo stuff for the album, but they don't buy it. Instead, they drag Bob out for coffee at a dirty little diner near Gerard's apartment and put on their earnest faces.

"Is he making you do this as part of your contract?" Frank asks.

"You're nobody's booty-call but your own, Bob Bryar," Ray chimes in.

"For fuck's sake," Bob groans. "He's not forcing anything. We're just hanging out."

"Hanging out and having a lot of sex," Mikey says.

Bob blushes but doesn't try to deny it. If he can't be honest with his bandmates about all the sex he's having, who can he be honest with?

"Guys, leave him alone," Gerard says suddenly. "This has been coming for awhile and I think it's good."

Everyone looks at Gerard in surprise but Gerard just shrugs and says, "Take your happiness where you find it."

The rest of the guys look at each other and nod.

 

* * *

 

They take a couple of weeks off in February before the start of the 'Black Parade' tour. Bob spends the first week in Chicago, packing and hanging out with his family. There's not much left in his apartment to pack, most of his shit is at Brian's. Bob tries not to think too hard about what that means or if Brian's looking forward to Bob going on tour and taking his shit with him.

At the start of the second week, Bob meets back up with Frank, Ray, Gerard and Mikey in Jersey and they practice the stage show for six days straight. The day before the first show, they hop on the buses and drive to New Hampshire.

Bob wakes up early the next morning and slips out of his and Brian's room to have a smoke outside. The cold bites his cheeks and Bob clenches his hands in his pockets, sucking in his breath as he tries to remember why he keeps smoking. He jogs in place for a few minutes until he warms up enough to be able to hold his lighter.

The door opens behind him and Bob turns around. He's expecting Gee, the fucker always knows when someone is smoking and tries to bum a cigarette, but it's Brian, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Motherfucking Christ, Bryar," Brian bitches. "What the fuck are you doing out here in this fucking cold?"

Bob searches through his pockets until he pulls out his cigarettes and then answers. "What's the matter, you worried about your balls freezing off?"

"I'd like to point out that I won't be the only one crying if my balls freeze off. You were pretty fond of them last night."

Bob lights his cigarette and shakes his head. "You know, there was a time in my life when I wasn't constantly talking about your balls."

"And it was the worst time of your life," Brian leers.

"Keep telling yourself that."

Brian's going out with them for the first ten shows and then he's flying to LA to "manage my other bands, motherfuckers". He and Bob still haven't talked about what's going to happen with them after that. Truthfully, Bob's not really sure how to go about bringing it up.

"Hey," Brian steps closer until he's practically tucked into Bob's armpit, "share some body heat."

Bob takes his other hand out of his pocket and puts it on Brian's hip to steady him. Brian stares off into the distance the way he does when he's about to ask a question that he doesn't really want answered. "You ever think about Jepha?"

Bob scrunches his forehead in confusion. "Think about Jepha like 'I wish we were still fucking', or think about Jepha like 'I wonder how he's doing'?"

"The first one."

"No," Bob says slowly. "It didn't work out and that sucked for a while but I'm not still hung up on him. I mean, he handled it pretty shitty and so did I but we just weren't in the right place at the right time. There's nothing that could have been done about that."

"I think that you weren't wrong to think there was something more with Jepha," Brian says. "Look, I love Jepha, but the guy's a trainwreck." Brian nudges Bob's hand for the cigarette and Bob passes it over immediately.

"What's this all about?"

"I think you and I are in the same place at the same time," Brian blurts out. He takes a few nervous puffs on the cigarette before he passes it back.

"I think you're right." Bob smiles.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

They stand out by the entrance in silence, smiling and passing the cigarette back and forth until it's smoked down to the filter. Bob stubs it out and drops the butt in his pocket while Brian reaches his arms over his head and stretches. He looks at Bob and asks, "You ready?"

"Definitely."


End file.
